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THE 
COMPLETE     POETICAL    WORKS 

OF 

ROBERT    BUCHANAN 
VOL.  I. 


POEMS  AND  NOVELS  BY  ROBERT  BUCHANAN 

THE  COMPLETE  POETICAL  WORKS  OF  ROBERT 
BUCHANAN.  2  vols.  crown  8vo.  buckram,  with  Portrait  Fron- 
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GOD  AND   THE   MAN.      With  11   Illustrations  by  FRED. 
BARNARD. 

LADY  KILPATRICK. 

THE  MARTYRDOM  OF  MADELINE. 

LOVE  ME  FOR  EVER. 

ANNAN  WATER. 

THE  NEW  ABELARD. 

FOXGLOVE  MANOR. 

RACHEL  DENE. 

MATT  :  a  Story  of  a  Caravan. 

THE  MASTER  OF  THE  MINE. 

THE  HEIR  OF  LINNE. 

WOMAN  AND  THE  MAN. 


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THE  CHARLATAN.     By  ROBERT  BUCHANAN  and  HENRY 

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London:  CHATTO  &  WINDUS,  in  St.  Martin's  Lane,  W.C. 


THE 


COMPLETE  POETICAL  WORKS 


OF 


ROBERT     BUCHANAN 


IN    TWO    VOLUMES— VOL.   I. 


WITH    A    PORTRAIT 


LONDON 

CHATTO     &     WINDUS 
1901 


PRINTED   BY 

SPOTTISWOODE  AND  CO.    LTD.,    NEW-STREET  SQUARE 
LONDON 


Contents. 


EARLY  POEMS. 


PAGE 
.        I 

•  3 

•  4 
.      6 
.      7 


PASTORAL  PICTURES: 

1.  Down  the  River         . 

2.  The  Summer  Pool . 

3.  Up  the  River      .        • 

4.  Snow 

TO  THE  LUGGIE    ...» 

FRA  GIACOMO 

CHARMIAN 9 

CLOUDLAND 9 

CUCKOO  SONG I2 

THE  WHITE  DEER I2 

CONVENT-ROBBING *3 

THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  WAYFARER  .        .    .    15 

IN  SPRING-TIME l6 

THE  FISHERMAN l6 

THE  CHURCHYARD 16 

SEA-WASH »7 

EARTH  AND  THE  SOUL   ....  17 

A  CURL l8 

LOVE  AND  TIME 20 


UNDERTONES. 

(1864.) 

POET'S  PROLOGUE— To  David  in  Heaven    .  21 
THE  UNDERTONES  : 

x.  Proteus ;  or,  a  Prelude  ...  24 

2.  Ades,  King  of  Hell     ...  26 

3.  Pan 3° 

4.  The  Naiad 35 

5.  The  Satyr 3° 

6.  Venus  on  the  Sun-Car        .        .  39 

7.  Selene  the  Moon   ....  4° 

8.  Iris  the  Rainbow         ...  41 

9.  Orpheus  the  Musician  42 

10.  Polypheme's  Passion  ...  43 

11.  Penelope         .....  52 

12.  Sappho  :  on  the  Leucadian  Rock  54 

13.  The  Syren 54 

14.  A  Voice  from  Academe       .        .  5° 

15.  Pygmalion  the  Sculptor         .        .  59 

16.  Antony  in  Arms 65 

17.  Fine  Weather  on  the  Digentia      .    .  65 


PAGE 

18.  Fine  Weather  by  Baiae      .        .       .    70 

19.  The  Swan-Song  of  Apollo      .  .    73 
POET'S  EPILOGUE— To  Mary  on  Earth        .    74 


IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF 
INVERBURN. 

(1865.) 
THE  LOWLAND  VILLAGE         .     .  »       .    .    76 

WILLIE  BAIRD 77 

LORD  RONALD'S  WIFE    .       .  .    .    83 

POET  ANDREW 84 

WHITE  LILY  OF  WEARDALE-HEAD  .  .  90 
THE  ENGLISH  HUSWIFE'S  GOSSIP  .  .  93 
THE  FAERY  FOSTER-MOTHER  .  .  .  98 

THE  GREEN  GNOME 99 

HUGH  SUTHERLAND'S  PANSIES      .       .    .  100 

THE  DEAD  MOTHER 105 

THE  WIDOW  MYSIE  (an  Idyl  of  Love  and 

Whisky)  .        ;        .        .  .    .  106 

THE  MINISTER  AND  THE  ELFIN  .  .  no 
VILLAGE  VOICES  : 


1.  January  Wind 

2.  April 


^.pril  Rain 

3.  Summer  Moon 

4.  December  Snow . 


in 
112 

112 
113 


LONDON  POEMS. 
(1866-70.) 

BEXHILL,  1866 "3 

THE  LITTLE  MILLINER  ;  OR,  LOVE  IN  AN 

ATTIC "5 

Liz "9 

THE  STARLING I24 

JANE  LEWSON I25 

LANGLEY  LANE  (a  Love  Poem)    .        .        .  i35 
EDWARD  CROWHURST  ;  OR,  'A  NEW  POET    i 
ARTIST  AND  MODEL  (a  Love  Poem)   .        .  147 

NELL x« 

ATTORNEY  SNEAK X5 

BARBARA  GRAY XS 

THE  BLIND  LINNET TS7 


'TIGER  BAY'  (a  Stormy  Night's  Dream) : 

i.  The  Tigress 

z.  'Ratcliffe  Meg'. 

3.  Intercession 

THE  CITY  ASLEEP        .... 

UP  IN  AN  ATTIC 

To  THE  MOON 

SPRING  SONG  IN  THE  CITY    .       . 

IN  LONDON,  MARCH  1866     . 

A  LARK'S  FLIGHT 

DE  BERNY 

THE  WAKE  OF  TIM  O'HARA 

KITTY  KEMBLE 

THE  SWALLOWS 

TOM  DUNSTAN  ;  OR,  THE  POLITICIAN 

O'MURTOGH      . 

THE  BOOKWORM 

THE  LAST  OF  THE  HANGMEN- 
LONDON,  1864 

THE  MODERN  WARRIOR  .... 

PAN  :  EPILOGUE 

L'ENVOI  TO  LONDON  POEMS  . 


158 


,  160 
.  161 
.  162 
.  163 
.  163 
.  165 
.  166 
.  168 

•  173 
.  174 

•  *75 
.  176 
.  177 
.  182 
.  183 
.  185 
.  185 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 
(1866-70.) 

THE  DEATH  OF  ROLAND     ....  186 

THE  GIFT  OF  Eos 192 

CLARI  IN  THE  WELL 196 

SERENADES 197 

IN  THE  GARDEN 198 

THE  ASRAI  (Prologue  to  the  Changeling)    .  200 
THE  CHANGELING  (a  Legend  of  the  Moon- 
light) : 

i.  TheAsrai 201 

e.  The  Changeling's  Birth          .        .     .  202 

3.  His  Mortal  Life 203 

4.  His  Sorrow  and  Sin       .        .        .     .  203 

5.  The  Battle- Field         .        .        .        .204 

6.  The  Abbot  Paul 204 

To  CLARI  (with  the  Preceding  Poem)  .        .  206 


NORTH  COAST,  AND 
OTHER  POEMS. 

(1867-68.) 
MEG  BLANE: 

1.  Storm     .......  207 

2.  Dead  Calm 211 

3.  A  Troubled  Deep 214 

4.  '  And  the  Spirit  of  God  moved  upon 

the  Waters' 217 

THE  BATTLE  OF  DRUMLIEMOOR  (Covenant 

Period) 221 

THE  NORTHERN  WOOING  ....  223 

AN  ENGLISH  ECLOGUE 227 

A  SCOTTISH  ECLOGUE  .....  229 

THE  SCAITH  o'  BARTLE 232 

THE  GLAMOUR 241 

SIGURD  OF  SAXONY  (Mediaeval)  .  .  .  244 

A  POEM  TO  DAVID 246 

HAKON 247 


SONNETS 

WRITTEN   BY  LOCH   CORUISK, 

ISLE  OF  SKYE. 

(1870.) 

CORUISKEN  SONNETS: 

1.  Lord,  is  it  Thou? 

2.  We  are  Fatherless  .... 

3.  We  are  Children 

4.  When  we  are  all  Asleep          .        . 

5.  But  the  Hills  will  bear  Witness 

6.  Desolate  ! 

7.  Lord,  art  Thou  here? 

8.  God  is  Beautiful     .... 

9.  The  Motion  of  the  Mists    . 

10.  Coruisk 

xx.  But  Whither?     .... 

12.  God  is  Pitiless        .... 

13.  Yea,  Pitiless        .... 

14.  Could  God  be  Judged?  . 


15.  The  Hills  on  their  Thrones 

16.  King  Blaabhein      . 

17.  Blaabhein  in  the  Mists 

x8.  The  Fiery  Birth  of  the  Hills 

19.  The  Changeless  Hills 

20.  O  Mountain  Peak  of  a  God  . 

21.  God  the  Image    . 

22.  The  Footprints       .        .        . 

23.  We  are  Deathless 

24.  A  Voice  in  the  Whirlwind      . 

25.  Cry  of  the  Little  Brook 

26.  The  Happy  Hearts  of  Earth 

27.  Father,  forgive  Thy  Child 

28.  God's  Loneliness    .        .        . 

29.  The  Cup  of  Tears 

30.  The  Light  of  the  World 

31.  Earth's  Eldest  Born   . 

32.  What  Spirit  cometh  ?     .        . 

33.  Stay,  O  Spirit  !  .        .    »   . 

34.  Quiet  Waters 


PAGE 

248 
248 
248 
249 
249 
249 
249 
250 
250 
250 
250 
251 
251 
251 
251 
252 
252 
252 
252 
253 
253 
253 
253 
254 
254 
254 
254 
255 
255 
255 

256 
256 


THE  BOOK  OF  ORM. 
(1870.) 

INSCRIPTION  (To  F.  W.  C.)  .  .  .  .  257 
PROEM  (to  Book  of  Orm  and  Political 

Mystics) 257 

THE  BOOK  OF  THE  VISIONS  SEEN  BY  ORM 

THE  CELT 257 

1.  FIRST  SONG  OF  THE  VEIL  : 

1.  The  Veil  Woven 258 

2.  Earth  the  Mother       ....  259 

3.  Children  of  Earth 259 

4.  The  Wise  Men 260 

2.  THE  MAN  AND  THE  SHADOW  : 

1.  The  Shadow 261 

2.  The  Rainbow 266 

3.  SONGS  OF  CORRUPTION  : 

1.  Phantasy 268 

2.  The  Dream  of  the  World   without 

Death 269 

3.  Soul  and  Flesh 272 

4.  THE  SOUL  AND  THE  DWELLING        .    .  273 

5.  SONGS  OF  SEEKING: 

1. .  276 

2.  Quest 276 


CONTENTS. 


vii 


3.  The  Happy  Earth 

4.  O  Unseen  One  !      . 

5.  World's  Mystery 

6.  The  Cities 

7.  The  Priests 

8.  The  Lamb  of  God  . 


PAGE 

.        .        .  276 
.    .  277 
.  277 

.        .     .  278 
.        .        .  278 
.        .     .  278 
9.  Doom 279 

10.  God's  Dream 279 

11.  Flower  of  the  World  .        .        .        .280 

12.  O  Spirit 280 

6.  THE  LIFTING  OF  THE  VEIL  : 

1.  Orm's  Vision 280 

2.  The  Face  and  the  World       .        .    .  281 

3.  Orm's  Awakening       ....  284 

7.  THE  DEVIL'S  MYSTICS  : 

1.  The  Inscription  without         .        .     .  284 

2.  The  Tree  of  Life         .        .        .        .284 

3.  The  Seeds 285 

4.  Fire  and  Water ;  or,  a  Voice  of  the 

Flesh 286 

5.  Sanitas 286 

6.  The  Philosophers        .        .        .        .287 

7.  The  Devil's  Prayer         .        .        .    .  287 

8.  Homunculus ;  or,  the  Song  of  Dei- 

cides 287 

9.  Roses      .        .        .  .        .     .  288 

10.  Hermaphroditus          ....  289 

11.  After 289 

12.  His  Prayer 290 

8.  THE  VISION  OF  THE  MAN  ACCURST      .  290 


POLITICAL  MYSTICS. 
(1871.) 

TITAN  AND  AVATAR  (a  Choral  Mystic) : 

i.  Ode  of  Nations 295 


2.  The  Avatar's  Dream      . 

3.  The  Elemental  Quest 

4.  The  Elemental  Doom    . 

THE  FOOL  OF  DESTINY  (a  Choric  Drama) 
THE  TEUTON  MONOLOGUE  (1870) 
THE  REPLY 


THE  CITY  OF  MAN 334 


SONGS  OF  THE    TERRIBLE 

YEAR. 

(1870.) 

ODE  TO  THE  SPIRIT  OF  AUGUSTS  COMTE 

(1871) 335 

A  DIRGE  FOR  KINGS 337 

THE  PERFECT  STATE 338 

THE  Two  VOICES  (January  1871) .  .  .339 
ODE  BEFORE  PARIS  (December  1870)  .  .  340 
A  DIALOGUE  IN  THE  SNOW  (before  Paris, 

December  1870) 341 

THE  PRAYER  IN  THE  NIGHT      .        .       .343 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRANCE 344 

THE  APOTHEOSIS  OF  THE  SWORD  (Versailles, 

1871) 345 

THE  CHAUNT  BY  THE  RHINE  (1871)      .    .  347 


SAINT  ABE  AND  HIS  SEVEN 
WIVES. 


A  TALE  OF    SALT  LAKE   CITY. 


PAGE 
349 


DEDICATION  :  TO  OLD  DAN  CHAUCER 
APPROACHING  UTAH.— THE  Boss's  TALE 

1.  Passing  the  Ranche       .        .        .    .  350 

2.  Joe  Wilson  goes  a-courting        .        .  350 

3.  Saint  and  Disciple          .        .        .     .  351 

4.  The  Book  of  Mormon         .        .        .  353 

5.  Joe  ends  his  Story — First  Glimpse  of 

Utah 355 

THE  CITY  OF  THE  SAINTS  : 

1.  Among  the  Pastures— Summer  Even- 

ing Dialogue 356 

2.  Within  the  City— St.  Abe  and  the 

Seven 361 

3.  Promenade — Main  Street,  Utah         .  364 

4.  Within  the  Synagogue — Sermonizeth 

the  Prophet 367 

5.  The  Falling  of  the  Thunderbolt         .  369 

6.  Last  Epistle  of  St.  Abe  to  the  Poly- 

gamists 371 

THE  FARM  IN  THE  VALLEY— SUNSET  (1871)  377 


WHITE  ROSE  AND  RED. 


A  LOVE  STORY. 


DEDICATION 

INVOCATION  ('  Know'st  thou  the  Land?) 

1.  THE  CAPTURE  OF  EUREKA  HART  : 

1.  Natura  Naturans  . 

2.  Eureka 

3.  The  Capture 

4.  Thro'  the  Wood          .        .        . 

5.  The  Red  Tribe      . 

2.  RED  ROSE: 

1.  Erycina  Ridens  , 

2.  Log  and  Sunbeam  . 

3.  Nuptial  Song     .... 

4.  Arretez !  .        .        .        . 

5.  The  Farewell      .... 

6.  The  Paper 

3.  WHITE  ROSE: 

1.  Drowsietown       .... 

2.  After  Meeting         .        .        .        . 

3.  Phoebe  Anna  .        , 

4.  Nuptial  Song  .        , 

4.  THE  GREAT  SNOW: 

1.  The  Great  Snow 

2.  The  Wanderer        . 

3.  Retrospect :  the  Journey    .        . 

4.  The  Journey's  End 

5.  Face  to  Face       .... 

6.  Pauguk 

7.  The  Melting  of  the  Snow   .        . 

8.  The  Last  Look       .        .       .       . 
EPILOGUE  .       .       • 


380 
380 

381 
383 
385 


390 
390 
392 
392 
393 


397 
399 
402 
404 

4°5 
407 
411 
4i5 
417 
419 
421 
422 

423 


CONTENTS. 


FACES  ON  THE   WALL. 
(1876.) 

PAGE 

LONE  HOUSE 424 

STORM  AND  CALM 424 

WITHOUT  AND  WITHIN 425 

NAPOLEON 425 

ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 425 

WALT  WHITMAN 425 

O  FACES! 425 

To  TRIFLERS 426 

THE  WANDERERS 426 

THE  WATCHER  OF  THE  BEACON        .       .  426 
'AND  THE  SPIRIT  OF  GOD  MOVED   UPON 

THE  WATERS'     .        .        ...  426 


BALDER   THE  BEAUTIFUL. 

A  SONG  OF  DIVINE  DKATH. 


PROEM  TO  -  .  (A  Song  of  a  Dream) 

1.  THE  BIRTH  OF  BALDER  : 

1.  Balder's  Birth-Song        .        . 

2.  His  Growth  and  Godhead  . 

2.  THE  FINDING  OF  BALDER  : 

1.  Frea  in  the  Wood       .        . 

2.  The  Shadow  in  the  Wood     . 

3.  Full  Godhead 

4.  The  Man  by  the  Ocean         . 

3.  THE  HEAVENWARD  JOURNEY  : 

1.  The  Goddesses   ... 

2.  The  Fruit  of  Life 

3.  The  City  of  the  Gods          . 

4.  The  Voice  of  the  Father        . 

5.  Balder's  Return 

4.  BALDER'S  RETURN  TO  EARTH  : 

1.  '  Balder  is  here  ' 

2.  ..... 

3.  All  Things  Blest  by  Balder    . 

4.  The  Cry  from  the  Ground  . 

5.  The  Shadow  on  the  Earth 

6.  On  the  Heights—  Evening 

7.  The  Vow  of  Balder        .        . 

5.  BALDER'S  QUEST  FOR  DEATH  : 


427 

429 
432 

433 
434 
438 
440 

442 

445 
446 
448 
448 

451 

453 
454 
455 
456 
458 
459 


2. 


.  .  46i 
.462 
-  •  463 


3.  The  Fight  of  Ships  . 

4.  Ydun      .... 
6.  BALDER  AND  DEATH: 

1.  The  Altar  of  Sacrifice        .        .        .465 

2.  Balder  and  Death 467 

3.  'O  Death,  pale  Death'      .        .        .468 

4.  Death  Sings 468 

5 469 

6.  The  Last  Prayer 470 

7.  The  First  Snowflake— Falling  of  the 

Snow  .  .          471 


7.  THE  COMING  OF  THE  OTHER  : 

1.  ..... 

2.  The  Light  on  the  Snow      . 

3.  The  Face  and  the  Voice 

4.  'Wake,  Balder  !  Wake  !'    . 

5.  The  Birth  and  Death     . 

6.  The  Paracletes    . 

£  .-.•.•.•.-. 

8.  THE  TWILIGHT  OP  THE  GODS 


PAGE 

•  473 

•  473 

•  474 

'  47I 

•  476 

•  477 
.  478 

•  47? 


480 


3.  The  Bridge  of  Ghosts    . 

4.  '  Behold,  I  am  Risen  ' 

5.  Alfadur  ... 

6.  The  Brethren      . 

7.  Father  and  Son 

8.  Twilight      .        .        . 

9.  '  A  Cross  and  a  Lily  '     . 
THE  LAST  BLESSING  : 

1.  The  Waking  of  the  Sea 

2.  From  Death  to  Life 


.  48z 

.  48-, 

.  484 

.  486 

.  488 

.  489 

•  49" 


.  491 
.  491 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 

AND  BALLADS. 

(1878-83.) 

DEDICATION  (To  Harriett)    . 

THE  STRANGE  COUNTRY        .... 

THE  BALLAD  OF  JUDAS  ISCARIOT 

THE  LIGHTS  OF  LEITH        .... 

THE  WEDDING  OF  SHON  MACLEAN  (a  Bag- 
pipe  Melody) 

HANS  VOGEL  (an  Episode  of  the  Franco- 
Prussian  War) 

PHIL  BLOOD'S  LEAP  (a  Tale  of  the  Gold- 
Seekers) 

THE  FA^RY  REAPER  (Ireland)      . 

THE  'MIDIAN-MARA'      .       .       ,       .    . 

O'CONNOR'S  WAKE  (an  Irish  Fiddle  Tune) 

HIGHLAND  LAMENT 

JAMES  AVERY 

THE  DEVIL'S  PEEPSHOW  (Old  Style)  . 

DAYBREAK  (Fragment) 

EUPHROSYNE  ;  OR,  THE  PROSPECT          .  \ 

STANLEY  FARM         

ON  A  YOUNG  POETESS'S  GRAVE         .       ) 
LOVE  IN  WINTER  (a  Genre  Picture) 
WILL  o'  THE  WISP  (a    Ballad  written  for 

Clari,  on  a  Stormy  Night) 
GIANT  DESPAIR  : 

x.  His  Death      .... 

2.  After \ 

THB  MOUNTAIN  WELL 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  SHEALING    . 
THE  SECRET  OF  THE  MERE  .        .  " 

MNEMOSYNE  ;  OR,  THE  RETROSPECT  . 
VANITY  FAIR   . 


493 
493 
494 
496 


504 
508 


512 


521 
521 
522 

523 

526 
527 
528 
529 
529 
53i 
532 


Early  Poems. 


PASTORAL  PICTURES. 


I. 
DOWN  THE  RIVER. 

How  merry  a  life  the  little  River  leads, 
Piping  a  vagrant  ditty  free  from  care  ; 
Now  rippling  as  it  rustles  through  the  reeds 
And  broad-leaved  lilies  sailing  here  and 

there, 

Now  lying  level  with  the  clover  meads 
And  musing  in  a  mist  of  golden  air  ! 
Bearing  a  pastoral  peace  where'er  it  goes, 
Narrow'd  to  mirth  or  broaden'd  to  repose  : 
Through  copsy  villages  and  tiny  towns, 
By  belts  of  woodland  singing  sweet, 
Pausing  where  sun  and  shadow  meet 
Without  the  darkness  of  the  breezy  downs, 
Bickering  o'er  the  keystone  as  it  flows 
'Neath  mossy  bridges  arch'd  like  maiden 

feet; 

And  slowly  widening  as  it  seaward  grows, 
Because  its  summer  mission  grows  com- 
plete. 

Run  seaward,  for  I  follow  ! 

Let  me  cross 

My  garden-threshold  ankle-deep  in  moss. 
Sweet  Stream,  your  heart  is  beating  and  I 

hear  it, 

As  conscious  of  its  pleasure  as  a  girl's  : 
O  little  River,  whom  I  love  so  well, 
Is  it  with  something  of  a  human  spirit 
You  twine  those  lilies  in  your  sedgy  curls  ? 
Take  up  the  inner  voice  we  both  inherit. 
O  little  River  of  my  love,  and  tell ! 

The  rain  has  crawled  from  yonder  moun- 
tain-side, 
And  passing,  left  its  footprints  far  and  wide. 


The  path  I  follow  winds  by  cliff  and  scar, 
Purple  and  dark  and  trodden  as  I  pass, 
The  foxglove  droops,  the  crocus  lifts   its 

star, 

And  bluebells  brighten  in  the  dewy  grass. 
Over  deep  pools  the  willow  hangs  its  hair, 
Dwarf  birches  show  their  sodden  roots  and 

shake 

Their  melting  jewels  on  my  bending  brows, 
The    mottled    mavis    pipes    among    their 

boughs 

For  joy  of  five  unborn  in  yonder  brake. 
The  River,  narrow'd  to  a  woody  glen, 
Leaps  trembling  o'er  a  little  rocky  ledge, 
Then  broadens  forward  into  calm  again 
Where  the  gray  moor-hen  builds  her  nest 

of  sedge  ; 
Caught  in  the  dark  those  willow-trees  have 

made, 

Lipping  the  yellow  lilies  o'er  and  o'er, 
It  flutters  twenty  feet  along  the  shade, 
Halts  at  the  sunshine  like  a  thing  afraid, 
And  turns  to  kiss  the  lilies  yet  once  more. 

Those  little  falls  are  lurid  with  the  rain 
That  ere  the  day  is  done  will  come  again. 
The  River  falters  swoll'n  and  brown, 
Falters,  falters,  as  it  nears  them, 
Shuddering  back  as  if  it  fears  them, 
Falters,  falters,  falters,  falters, 
Then  dizzily  rushes  down. 

But  all  is  calm  again,  the  little  River 
Smiles  on  and  sings  the  song  it  sings  for 

ever. 

Here  at  the  curve  it  passes  tilth  and  farm, 
And  faintly  flowing  onward  to  the  mill 
It  stretches  out  a  little  azure  arm 
To  aid  the  miller,  aiding  with  a  will, 
And  singing,  singing  still. 

B 


EARLY  POEMS. 


Sweet  household  sounds  come  sudden  on 

mine  ear  : 

The  waggons  rumbling  in  the  rutted  lanes, 
The  village  clock  and  trumpet  Chanticleer, 
The  flocks  and  cattle  on  the  marish-plains, 
With  shouts  of  urchins  ringing  loud  and 

clear  ; 
And  lo  !   a  Village,  breathing  breath  that 

curls 
In    foam-white    wreaths    through    ancient 

sycamores  ! 
A  hum  of  looms  comes  through  the  cottage 

doors. 

I  stumble  on  a  group  of  country  girls 
Faring  afield  thro'  deep  and  dewy  grass  ; 
Small  urchins  rush  from  sanded  kitchen- 
floors 
To  stare  with  mouths  wide  open  as  I  pass. 

But  yonder  cottage  where  the  woodbine 

grows, 

Half  cottage  and  half  inn,  a  pretty  place, 
Tempts  ramblers  with  the  country  cheer  it 

shows ; 

Entering,  I  rob  the  threshold  of  a  rose, 
And  meet  the  welcome  on  a  mother's  face. 
Come,  let  me  sit.     The  scent  of  garden 

flowers 
Flits  through  the  casement  of  the  sanded 

room, 
Hitting  the  sense  with  thoughts  of  summer 

hours 

When  half  the  world  has  budded  into  bloom. 
Is  that  the  faded  picture  of  our  host 
Shading  the  plate  of  pansies  where  I  sit — 
That  lean-limb'd  stripling  straighter  than  a 

post, 

Clad  in  a  coat  that  seems  a  sorry  fit  ? 
I  drink  his  health  in  this  his  own  October, 
That  bites  so  sharply  on  the  thirsty  tongue  ; 
And  here  he  comes,  but  not  so  slim  and  sober 
As  in  the  days  when   Love  and  he  were 

young. 

'  Hostess  ! '    I  fill  again  and  pledge  the  glory 
Of  that  stout  angel  answering  to  my  call, 
Who  changed  him  from  the  shadow  on  the 

wall 
Into  the  rosy  tun  of  sack  before  me  J 

Again  I  follow  where  the  river  wanders. 
The  landscape  billows  into  hills  of  thyme  ; 
Over  the  purple  heights  I  slowly  climb  ; 
Till  in  a  glen  of  birchen-trees  and  bomlders 


I  halt,  beneath  a  heathery  mountain  ridge 
Clothed  on  with  amber  cloud  from  head  to 
shoulders. 

I  wander  on  and  gain  a  mossy  bridge, 
And  watch  the  angling  of  a  shepherd  boy  ; 
Below  the  little  river  glimmers  by, 
Touched  with  a  troubled  sense  of  pain  or 

joy 

By  some  new  life  at  work  in  earth  and  sky. 
The  marshes  there  steam  mist  from  hidden 

springs, 

Deep-hidden  in  the  marsh  the  bittern  cnlls, 
And  yonder  swallow  oils  its  ebon  wings 
While  fluttering  o'er  the  falls. 
Below  my  feet  the  little  budding  flower 
Thrusts  up  dark  leaves  to  feel  the  coming 

shower : 

I'll  trust  these  weather-signs  and  creep  apart 
Beneath  this  crag  until  the  rain  depart, — 
'Twill  come  again  and  go  within  an  hour. 

The  moist  soft  wind  has  died  and  fallen  now, 
The  air  is  hotandhush'd  on  flower  and  tree, 
The  leaves  are  troubled  into  sighs,  and  see  ! 
There  falls  a  heavy  drop  upon  my  brow. 
The  cloudy  standard  is  above  unfurl'd  ; 
The  aspen  fingers  of  the  blinded  Rain 
Feel  for  the  summer  eyelids  of  the  world 
That  she  may  kiss  them  open  once  again. 
Darker  and  darker,  till  with  one  accord 
The  clouds  pour  forth  their  hoard  in  gusts 

of  power, 

A  sunbeam  rends  their  bowels  like  a  sword 
And  frees  the  costly  shower  ! 

Fluttering  around  me  and  before  me, 
Stretched  like  a  mantle  o'er  me, 
The  rushing  shadows  blind  the  earth  and 

skies, 

Dazzling  a  darkness  on  my  gazing  eyes 
With  troublous  gleams  of  radiance,  like  the 

bright 

Pigments  of  gold  that  flutter  in  our  sight, 
When  with  shut  eyes  we  strain 
Our  aching  vision  back  upon  the  brain. 

Across  the  skies  and  o'er  the  plain 
Fast  fly  the  swollen  shadows  of  the  Rain  ; 
Blown  duskly  by, 
From  hill  to  hill  they  fly, 
O'er  solitary  streams  and  windy  downs, 
O'er  trembling  villages  and  darkened  town?  ! 


DOWN   THE   RIVER— THE  SUMMER   POOL 


I  crouch  beneath  the  crag  and  watch  the 
mist 

Move  on  the  skirts  of  yonder  mountains  gray 

Until  it  bubbles  into  amethyst 

And  softly  melts  away. 

The  thyme-bells  catch  their  drops  of  silver 
dew, 

And  quake  beneath  the  load  ; 

The  squadron'd  pines  that  shade  the  splash- 
ing road 

Are  glimmering  with  a  million  jewels  too. 

And  hark  !  the  Spirit  of  the  Rain 

Sings  to  the  Summer  sleeping, 

Pressing  a  dark  damp  face  against  the  plain, 

And  pausing,  pausing,  not  for  pain, 

Pausing,  pausing,  ere  the  low  refrain, 

Because  she  cannot  sing  for  weeping. 

She  flings  her  cold  dim  arms  about  the 
Earth, 

That  soon  shall  wear  the  blessing  she  has 
given, 

Then  brightens  thro'  her  tears  in  sunny 
mirth 

And  flutters  back  to  heaven. 

A  fallen  sunbeam  trembles  at  my  feet, 
And  as  I  sally  forth  the  linnets  frame 
Their  throats  to  answer  yonder  laverock 

sweet. 

The  Jewell' d  trees  flash  out  in  emerald  flame. 
The  bright  drops  fall  with  throbs  of  peace- 
ful sound, 

And  melt  in  circles  on  the  shallow  pools  _ 
That  glisten  on  the  ground. 
Last,  Iris  issues  from  her  cloudy  shrine, 
Trembling  alone  in  heaven  where  she  rules, 
And  arching  down  to  kiss  with  kisses  sweet 
The  bright  green  world  that  flashes  at  her 

feet, 
Runs  liquid  through  her  many  hues  divine. 


THE  SUMMER  POOL. 

THERE  is  a  singing  in  the  summer  air, 
The  blue  and  brown  moths  flutter  o'er  the 

grass, 

The  stubble  bird  is  creaking  in  the  wheat, 
And  perch'd  upon  the  honeysuckle  hedge 
Pipes  the  green  linnet.  Oh,  the  golden 

world  ! 

The  stir  of  life  on  every  blade  of  grass, 
The  motion  and  the  joy  on  every  bough, 


The  glad  feast  everywhere,  for  things  that 

love 
The  sunshine,  and  for  things  that  love  the 

shade ! 

Aimlessly  wandering  with  weary  feet, 
Watching  the  wool-white  clouds  that  wander 

by, 

I  come  upon  a  lonely  place  of  shade, — 
A  still  green  Pool,  where  with  soft  sound 

and  stir 

The  shadows  of  o'erhanging  branches  sleep, 
Save  where  they  leave  one  dreamy  space  of 

blue, 

O'er  whose  soft  stillness  ever  and  anon 
The  feathery  cirrhus  blows.    Here  unaware 
I  pause,  and  leaning  on  my  staff  I  add 
A  shadow  to  the  shadows  ;  and  behold ! 
Dim  dreams  steal  down  upon  me,  with  a  hum 
Of  little  wings,  a  murmuring  of  boughs, — 
The  dusky  stir  and  motion  dwelling  here, 
Within   this    small    green    world.      O'er- 

shadowed 

By  dusky  greenery,  tho'  all  around 
The  sunshine  throbs  on  fields  of  wheat  and 

bean, 

Downward  I  gaze  into  the  dreamy  blue, 
And  pass  into  a  waking  sleep,  wherein 
The  green  boughs  rustle,  feathery  wreaths 

of  cloud 

Pass  softly,  piloted  by  golden  airs  : 
The  air  is  still,— no  birds  sing  any  more, — 
And,  helpless  as  a  tiny  flying  thing, 
1  am  alone  in  all  the  world  with  God. 

The  wind  dies — not  a  leaf  stirs— on  the  Pool 
The  fly  scarce  moves  ;  Earth  seems  to  hold 

her  breath 

Until  her  heart  stops,  listening  silently 
For  the  far  footsteps  of  the  coming  Rain  ! 

While  thus  I  pause,  it  seems  that  I  have 

gained 

New  eyes  to  see  ;  my  brain  grows  sensitive 
To  trivial  things  that,  at  another  hour, 
Had  passed  unheeded.     Suddenly  the  air 
Shivers,  the  shadows  in  whose  midst  I  stand 
Tremble  and  blacken — the  blue  eye  o'  the 

Pool 

Is  closed  and  clouded  ;  with  a  sudden  gleam, 
Oiling  its  wings,  a  swallow  darteth  past, 
And  weedling  flowers  beneath  my  feet  thrust 

up 


EARLY  POEMS. 


Their  leaves  to  feel  the  fragrant  shower.    Oh 

hark! 

The  thirsty  leaves  are  troubled  into  sighs, 
And  up  above  me,  on  the  glistening  boughs, 
Patters  the  summer  Rain  I 

Into  a  nook, 

Screen'd  by  thick  foliage  of  oak  and  beech, 
I  creep  for  shelter  ;  and  the  summer  shower 
Murmurs  around  me.  Oh,  the  drowsy 

sounds ! 
The  pattering  rain,  the  numerous  sigh  of 

leaves, 

The  deep,  warm  breathing  of  the  scented  air, 
Sink  sweet  into  my  soul— until  at  last 
Comes  the  soft  ceasing  of  the  gentle  fall, 
And  lo  !  the  eye  of  blue  within  the  Pool 
Opens  again,  while  with  a  silvern  gleam 
Dew-diamonds    twinkle    moistly    on    the 

leaves, 

Or,  shaken  downward  by  the  summer  wind, 
Fall  melting  on  the  Pool  in  rings  of  light ! 

in. 
UP  THE  RIVER. 

BEHIND  the  purple  mountains  lies  a  lake, 
Steadfast  thro'  storm  and  sunshine  in  its 

place ; 

Asleep 'neath  changing  skies,  its  waters  make 
A  mirror  for  the  tempest's  thunder-face  ; 
Thence— singing  songs  of  glee, 
Fluttering  to  my  cottage  by  the  sea, 

By  bosky  glen  and  grove, 
Past  the  lone  shepherd,  moveless  as  the  rock 
Whence  stretch'd  at  length  he  views  his 

scatter 'd  flock, — 
Cometh  the  little  River  that  I  love. 

To-day  I  '11  bid  farewell  to  books, 
And  by  the  River  loved  so  well, 
Thro'  ferny  haunts  and  flowery  nooks, 
Thro'  stony  glen  and  woody  dell, 
The  rainy  river-path  I  '11  take, 
Till  by  the  silent-sleeping  lake 
I  hear  the  shepherd's  bell. 
The  summer  bleats  from  every  rocky  height, 
The  bluebell  banks  are  dim  with  dewy  light, 
The  heavens  are  clear  as  infants'  eyes 

above ; 

This  is  no  day — you,  little  River,  know  it ! — 
For  sage  or  poet 
To  localise  his  love. 


Jn  rippling  cadence,  calm  and  slow, 

Sing,  little  River,  as  I  go, 

Songs  of  the  mountains  whence  you  flow  ! 

The  grassy  banks  are  wet  with  dew  that 

flashes 

Silverly  on  the  Naiad-river's  lashes — 
The  Naiad-river,  bright  with  sunken  suns, 
Who  murmureth  as  she  runs. 
Yonder  the  silver-bellied  salmon  splashes 
Within  the  spreading  circle  of  blue  shade 
That  his  own  leaps  have  made  : 
And  here  I  stoop,  and  pluck  with  tender  care 
A  lily  from  the  Naiad's  sedgy  hair. 
And  curling  softly  over  pebble, 
\Veaving  soft  waves  o'er  yellow  sands, 
Singing  her  song  in  tinkling  treble, 
The  mountain  Lady  thro'  the  farmer's  lands 
Slides  to  the  sea,  with  harvest-giving  hands. 

Here  freckled  cowslips  bloom  unsought, 
Like  yellow  jewels  on  her  light  green 

train; 
And  yonder,  dark  with  dreaming  of  the 

rain, 

Grows  the  wood-violet  like  a  lowly  thought. 
Lightly  the  mountain  Lady  dances  down, 
Dressed  maidenly  in    many    a  woodland 

gem;— 

Lo,  even  where  the  footprint  of  the  clown 
Has  bruised  her  raiment-hem, 
Crimson- tipp'd  daisies  make  a  diadem. 

The  little  River  is  the  fittest  singer 
To  sound  the  praises  of  a  day  so  fair. 
The  dews,  suck'd  up  thro'  pores  of  sunshine, 

linger 

As  silver  cloudlets  in  mid-air  ; 
And  over  all  the  sunshine  throws 
Its  golden  glamour  of  repose. 
The  Silence  listens,  in  a  dream, 
To  hear  the  ploughman  urge  his  reeling  team, 
The  trout,  that  flashes  with  a  sudden  gleam, 
And  musical  motions  heaved  by  hills  that 

bound 
The  slumberous  vales  around. 

I  loiter  onward  slowly,  and  the  whole 
Sweet  joy  is  in  my  happy  fancies  drowned. 
The  sunshine  meets  the  music.     Sight  and 

sound 

Are  wedded  by  the  Soul. 
— Sing,  little  River,  this  sweet  morn, 
Songs  of  the  hills  where  thou  wert  horn  t 


UP   THE   RIVER. 


For,  suddenly,  mine  eyes  perceive 
The  purple  hills  that  touch  the  sky  : 
Familiar  with  the  stars  of  eve, 
Against  the  pale  blue  West  they  lie, 
Netted  in  mists  of  azure  air, 
With  thread-like  cataracts  here  and  there. 
Oh  hark  !     Oh  hark  ! 

The  shepherd  shouts,  and  answering  sheep- 
dogs bark  ; 

And  voices,  startling  Echo  from  her  sleep, 
Are  blown  from  steep  to  steep. 

At  yonder  falls,  the  trembling   mountain 

Lady 
Clings   to    the   bramble  high  above  me 

lying, 
With  veil  of  foam  behind  her  swift  feet 

flying, 

And  a  lorn  terror  in  her  lifted  voice, 
Ere    springing   to   the    rush-friezed   basin 
shady, 

That  boils  below  with  noise. 
Then,    whirling    dizzily    for    a    moment's 

space, 

She  lets  the  sun  flash  brightly  on  her  face, 
And  lightly  laughs  at  her  own  terror  past, 
And  floateth  onward  fast ! 

Thus   wandering    onward,    ankle- deep    in 

grass, 

Scaring  the  cumbrous  black  cock  as  I  pass, 
I  came  upon  two  shepherd  boys,  who  wade 
For  coolness  in  the  limpid  waves, 
And  with  their  shade 
Startle  the  troutling  from  its  shallow  caves. 

Let  me    lie    down    upon  the  bank,    and 

drink ! 
The  minnows  at  the  brim,  with  bellies 

white 

Upturned  in  specks  of  silvery  light, 
Flash  from  me  in  a  shower,  and  sink. 
Below,  the  blue  skies  wink 
Thro"  heated  golden  air — a  clear  abyss 
Of  azure,  with  a  solitary  bird 
Steadfastly  winging  thro'  the  depths  un- 
stirred. 

The  brain  turns  dizzy  with  its  bliss  ; 
And  I  would  plunge  into  the  chasms  cool, 
And  float  to  yonder  cloud  of  fleecy  woo), 
That  floats  below  me,  as  I  kiss 
The    mountain    Lady's    lips    with   thirsty 
mouth. 


What  would  parch'd  Dives  give  amid  his 

drouth 
For  kisses  such  as  this  ? 

Sing,  little  River,  while  I  rest, 
Songs  of  your  hidden  mountain  nest, 
And  of  the  blue  sky  in  your  breast ! 

The  landscape  darkens  slowly 

With  mountain  shadows  ;  when  I  wander 

on, 
The  tremulous  gladness  of  the  heat  seems 

gone, 
And  a  cool  awe  spreads  round  me,  sweet 

and  holy,— 

A  tender,  sober-suited  melancholy. 
The  path  rough  feet  have  made  me  winds 

away 

O'er  fenny  meadows  to  the  white  highway, 
Where  the  big  waggon  clatters  with  its 

load, 

And  pushing  onward,  to  the  ankles  wet 
In  swards  as  soft  as  silken  sarcenet, 
I  gain  the  dusty  road. 

The  air  is  hotter  here.     The  bee  booms  by 

With  honey-laden  thigh, 

Doubling  the  heat  with  sounds  akin  to  heat ; 

And  like  a  floating  flower  the  butterfly 
Swims  upward,  downward,  till  its  feet 
Clin  •  to  the  hedgerows  white  and  sweet. 

A  black  duck  rises  clumsily  with  a  cry, 

And  the  dim  lake  is  nigh. 
The  road  curves  upward  to  a  dusty  rise, 
Where  fall  the  sunbeams  flake  on  flake  ; 
And  turning  at  the  curve,  mine  eyes 
Fall  sudden  on  the  silent  lake, 
Asleep  'neath  hyacinthine  skies. 

Sing,  little  River,  in  your  mirth, 
Sing  to  thyself  for  joy  the  earth 
Is  smiling  on  your  humble  worth  ; 
And  sing  for  joy  that  earth  has  given 
A  place  of  birth  so  near  to  heaven  ! 
Sing,  little  River,  while  I  climb 
These  little  hills  of  rock  and  thyme  ; 
And  hear  far-off  your  tinkling  chime  ! 

The  cataracts  burst  in  foamy  sheen  ; 
The  hills  slope  blackly  to  the  water's  brim, 
And  far  below  I  see  their  shadows  dim  ; 

The  lake,  so  closely  hemmed  between 
Their  skirts  of  heather  and  of  grass, 
Grows  black  and  cold  beneath  me  as  I  pass.. 


EARLY  POEMS. 


The  sunlight  fades  on  mossy  rocks, 
And  on  the  mountain  sides  the  flocks 

Are  split  like  streams  ; — the  highway  dips 
Down,  narrowing  to  the  path  where  lambs 
Lay  to  the  udders  of  their  dams 

Their  soft  and  pulpy  lips. 
The  hills  grow  closer  ;  to  the  right 
The  path  sweeps  round  a  shadowy  bay, 
Upon  whose  slated  fringes,  white 
And  crested  wavelets  play. 
All  else  is  still.     But  list,  oh  list  1 
Hidden  by  boulders  and  by  mist, 
A  shepherd  whistles  in  his  fist ; 
From  height  to  height  the  far  sheep  bleat 
In  answering  iteration  sweet. 
Sound,  seeking  Silence,  bends  above  her, 
Within  some  haunted  mountain  grot ; 
Kisses  her,  like  a  trembling  lover — 
So  that  she  stirs  in  sleep,  but  wakens  not ! 

Along  this  rock  I  '11  lie, 

With  face  turn  d  upward  to  the  sky. 

A    dreamy    numbness    glows    within    my 

brain — 

It  is  not  joy  and  is  not  pain — 
'Tis  like  the  solemn,  sweet  imaginings 
That  cast  a  shade  on  Music's  golden  wings. 
With  face  turned  upward  to  the  sun, 
I  lie  as  indolent  as  one 
Who,  in  a  vision  sweet,  perceives 
Spirits  thro'  mists  of  lotus  leaves  ; 

And  now  and  then  small  shadows  move 
Across  me,  cast  by  clouds  so  small 
Mine  eyes  perceive  them  scarce  at  all 

In  the  unsullied  blue  above. 
I  hear  the  streams  that  burst  and  fall, 
The  straggling  shepherd's  frequent  call, 

The  kine  low  bleating  as  they  pass, 
The  dark  lake  stirring  with  the  breeze, 
The  melancholy  hum  of  bees, 

The  very  murmur  of  the  grass. 

IV. 

SNOW. 

I  WANDER  forth  this  chill  December  dawn  : 
John  Frost  and  all  his  elves  are  out,  I  see, 
As  busy  as  the  elfin  world  can  be, 
Clothing  a  world  asleep  with  fleecy  lawn. 
'Mid  the  deep  silence  of  the  evening  hours 
They    glimmered    duskly    down  in   silent 
showers, 


And  featly  have  they  laboured  all  night  long, 
Cheering  their    labour  with  a   half-heard 

rhyme — 

Low  as  the  burthen  of  a  milkmaid's  song 
When  Echo  moans  it  over  hills  of  thyme. 

There  is  a  hush  of  music  on  the  air — 
The  white-wing'd  fays  are  faltering  every- 
where ; 

And  here  and  there, 

Madii  by  a  sudden  mingling  as  they  fall, 
There  comes  a  softer  lullaby  than  all, 
Swept  in  upon  the  universal  prayer. 
Mine  eyes  and  heart  are  troubled  with  a 

motion 

Of  music  like  the  moving  waves  of  ocean, 
When,  out  of  hearing,  o'er  the  harbour  bars 
They  sigh  toward  the  moon  and  jasper  stars. 
The  tiny  squadrons  waver  down  and  thicken, 
Gathering  numbers  as  they  fly, 
And  nearing  earth  their  thick-set  ranks  they 

quicken, 
And  swim  in  swarms  to  die  1 

But  now  the  clouds  are  winnowed  away : 
The  sky  above  is  gray  as  glass  ;  below 
The  feeble  twilight  of  the  dreamy  day 
Nets  the  long  landskip  hush'd  beneath  the 

snow. 

The  arrowy  frosts  sting  keenly  as  I  stray 
Along  the  rutted  lane  or  broad  highway, 
1'ast  wind-swept  hedges  sighing  sharp  and 

clear, 

Where  half  the  sweetly  changeful  year 
The  scented  summer  loves  to  gleam  and 

glow. 

The  new-lain  snowy  carpet,  ankle-deep, 
Crumbles  beneath  my  footsteps  as  I  pass, 
Revealing  scanty  blades  of  frozen  grass  ; 
On  either  side  the  chirping  sparrows  leap, 
And  here  and  there  a  robin,  friendly  now, 
From  naked  bough  to  bou^jh. 
That  snow-clad  homestead  in  the  river's  arm 
Is  haunted  with  the  noisy  rooks  that  ily 
Between  its  leafless  beeches  and  the  sky, 
And  hailing  fast  for  yonder  fallow  farm, 
A  solitary  crow  is  plunging  by. 
Light  muffled  winds  arising  high  among 
White  mountains  brooding  in  their  winter 

rest, 

Bear  from  the  eastern  winter  to  the  West 
The  muttered  diapason  of  a  song 
Made  by  the  thunder  on  a  mountain's  breast. 


SNOW— TO    THE  LUGGlE. 


The  sun  is  hanging  in  a  purple  globe, 
'Mid  yellow  mists  that  stir  with  silver  breath; 
The  quiet  landskip  slumbers,  white  as  death, 
Amid  its  naked  fields  and  woody  wolds, 
Wearing  the  winter  as  a  stainless  robe 
Low-trailing  in  a  fall  of  fleecy  folds. 
By  pasture-gates  the  mottled  cattle  swarm, 
Thick1  ning  the  misty  air,  with  piteous  eyes 
Fixed  ever  on  the  tempest-breeding  skies, 
And  watch  the  lingering  traces  of  the  storm. 
A  feeble  sunbeam  kisses  and  illumes 
Yon  whitened  spire  that  hints  a  hidden  town, 
And  flickering  for  a  space  it  darkens  down 
Above  the  silence  of  forgotten  tombs. 

I  gain  the  shoulder  of  the  woodland  now, 
A  fledgling's  flutter  from  a  small  hill's  brow. 
I  see  the  hamlet,  half  a  mile  below, 
With   dripping  gables  and  with  crimson 

panes, 

And  watch  the  urchins  in  the  narrow  lanes 
Below  the  school-house,    shouting  in  the 

snow. 
The  whitened  coach  comes  swiftly  round  the 

road 

With  horns  to  which  a  dozen  hills  reply, 
And  rattling  onward  with  its  laughing  load, 
Halts  steaming  at  the  little  hostelry. 
'Hard  by  the  lonely  woodman  pants  and 

glows, 

And,  wrapt  in  leather  stockings  to  the  thigh, 
Toils  with  an  icicle  beneath  his  nose. 
In  yonder  field  an  idle  farm-boy  blows 
His  frozen  fingers  into  tingling  flame  ; 
The  gaunt  old  farmer,  as  he  canters  by, 
Reins  in  to  greet  the  country  clowns  by 

name  ; 

That  chestnut  pony  in  the  yellow  fly 
Draws  the  plump  parson  and  his  leaner  dame. 

I  loiter  down  the  road,  and  feel  the  ground 
Like  iron  'neath  my  heel ;  the  windless  air 
Seems  lying  in  a  swound. 
Frost  follows  in  its  path  without  a  sound, 
And  plies  his  nimble  fingers  everywhere, 
Under  my  eyelids  and  beneath  my  hair. 
Yon  mountain  dons  once  more  its  helm  of 

cloud, 

The  air  grows  dark  and  dim  as  if  in  wonder  ; 
Once  more  the  heaven  is  winnow'd,  and  the 

crowd 

Of  silken  fays  flock  murmurously  under 
A  sky  that  flutters  like  a  wind-swept  shroud. 


Through  gloomy  dimbles,  clad  with  new- 
fall' n  snow, 

Back  to  my  little  cottage  home  I  go. 
But  once  again  I  roam  by  field  and  flood, 
Stung  into  heat  where  hoar-frosts  melt  and 

bite, 
What  time  the  fog- wrapt  sun  drops  red  as 

blood, 
And  Eve's  white  star  is  tingling  into  sight. 


TO   THE  LUGGIE.^ 

OH,  sweet  and  still  around  the  hill 

Thy  silver  waters,  Brook,  are  creeping  ; 
Beneath  the  hill,  as  sweet  and  still, 

Thy  weary  Friend  lies  sleeping  : 
A  laurel  leaf  is  in  his  hair, 

His  eyes  are  closed  to  human  seeming, 
And  surely  he  hath  dreams  most  fair, 

If  he,  indeed,  be  dreaming. 

O  Brook  !  he  smiled,  a  happy  child, 

Upon  thy  banks,  and  loved  thy  crying, 
And,  as  time  flew,  thy  murmur  grew 

A  trouble  purifying ; 
Till,  last,  thy  laurel  leaf  he  took, 

Dream-eyed  and  tearful,  like  a  woman, 
And  turned  thy  haunting  cry,  O  Brook ! 

To  speech  divine  and  human. 

O  Brook  !  in  song  full  sweet  and  strong, 

He  sang  of  thee  he  loved  so  dearly  ; 
Then  softly  creep  around  his  sleep, 

And  murmur  to  him  cheerly  ; 
For  though  he  knows  no  fret  or  fear, 

Though    life    no    more    slips    strangely 

through  him, 
Yet  he  may  rest  more  sound  to  hear 

His  friend  so  close  unto  him. 

And  when  at  last  the  sleepers  cast 

Their    swathes    aside,   and,    wondering, 

waken, 
Let  thy  Friend  be  full  tenderly 

In  silvern  arms  uptaken. 
Him  be  it  then  thy  task  to  bear 

Up  to  the  Footstool,  softly  flowing, — 
Smiles  on  his  eyes,  and  in  his  hair 

Thy  leaf  of  laurel  blowing  ! 

1  See  '  The  Luggie  and  other  Poems,'  by  the 
late  David  Cray. 


EARLV   POEMS. 


FRA    GIACOMO. 


I          ALAS,  Fra  Giacomo, 

Too  late  !  but  follow  me  ... 
Hush  !  draw  the  curtain— so  I 

She  is  dead,  quite  dead,  you  see. 
Poor  little  lady  1  she  lies, 
All  the  light  gone  out  of  her  eyes  ! 
But  her  features  still  wear  that  soft, 

Gray,  meditative  expression, 
Which  you  must  have  noticed  oft, 

Thro'  the  peephole,  at  confession. 
How  saintly  she  looks,  how  meek ! 

Though  this  be  the  chamber  of  death, 

I  fancy  I  feel  her  breath, 
As  I  kiss  her  on  the  cheek. 
Too  holy  for  me.  by  far  !— 
As  cold  and  as  pure  as  a  star, 

Not  fashioned  for  kissing  and  pressing, 
But  made  for  a  heavenly  crown  !  .  .  . 
Ay,  Father,  let  us  go  down, — 

But  first,  if  you  please,  your  blessing. 

II. 

.  .  .  Wine  ?  No  !   Come,  come,  you  must ! 

Blessing  it  with  your  prayers, 
You'll  quaff  a  cup,  I  trust, 

To  the  health  of  the  Saint  upstairs. 
My  heart  is  aching  so  ! 

And  I  feel  so  weary  and  sad, 

Through  the  blow  that  I  have  had ! 
You'll  sit,  Fra  Giacomo  ?  .  .  . 


Heigho  !  'tis  now  six  summers 

Since  I  saw  that  angel  and  married  her — 

I  was  passing  rich,  and  I  carried  her 
Off  in  the  face  of  all  comers  .  .  . 
So  fresh,  yet  so  brimming  with  Soul ! 

A  sweeter  morsel,  I  swear, 
Never  made  the  dull  black  coal 

Of  a  monk's  eye  glitter  and  glare  .  .  . 

Your  pardon — nay,  keep  your  chair  ! — 
A  jest !  but  a  jest !  .  .  .  Very  true, 

It  is  hardly  becoming  to  jest, 

And  that  Saint  upstairs  at  rest — 
Her  Soul  may  be  listening,  too  ! 
To  think  how  I  doubted  and  doubted, 
Suspected,  grumbled  at,  flouted 


That  golden-hair' d  Angel,  and  solely 
Because  she  was  zealous  and  holy  1 — 
Night  and  noon  and  morn 

She  devoted  herself  to  piety — 
Not  that  she  seemed  to  scorn, 

Or  shun,  her  husband's  society  ; 
But  the  claims  of  her  Soul  superseded 
All  that  I  asked  for  or  needed, 
And  her  thoughts  were  far  away 
From  the  level  of  lustful  clay, 
And  she  trembled  lest  earthly  matters 
Interfered  with  her  aves  and  paters  ! 
Sweet  dove  !  she  so  fluttered,  in  flying 

To  avoid  the  black  vapours  of  Hell, 
So  bent  on  self-sanctifying, — 
That  she  never  thought  of  trying 

To  save  her  poor  husband  as  well ! 
And  while  she  was  named  and  elected 

For  place  on  the  heavenly  roll, 
I  (beast  that  I  was)  suspected 

Her  manner  of  saving  her  Soul— 
So  half  for  the  fun  of  the  thing, 
What  did  I  (blasphemer!)  but  fling 
On  my  shoulders  the  gown  of  a  monk, 

(Whom  I  managed  for  that  very  day 

To  get  safely  out  of  the  way), 
And  se;.t  me,  half-sober,  half-drunk, 
With  the  cowl  drawn  over  my  face, 
In  the  Father  Confessor's  place  .  .  . 
Eheu!  benedicite! 
In  her  beautiful  sweet  simplicity, 
With  that  pensive  gray  expression, 
She  sighfully  knelt  at  confession, — 
While  I  bit  my  lips  till  they  bled, 

And  dug  my  nails  in  my  palm, 
And  heard,  with  averted  head, 

The  horrible  words  come  calm — 
Each  word  was  a  serpent's  sting ; 

But,  wrapt  in  my  gloomy  gown, 
I  sat  like  a  marble  thing 

As  she  uttered  your  name.     SIT  DOWN  1 


More  wine,  Fra  Giacomo  ? 
One  cup— as  you  love  me  !     No? 
Come,  drink  !  'twill  bring  the  streaks 
Of  crimson  back  to  your  cheeks. 
Come  I  drink  again  to  the  Saint, 
Whose  virtues  you  loved  to  paint, 
Who,  stretched  on  her  wifely  bed, 
With  the  soft,  sweet,  gray  expression 
You  saw  and  admired  at  confession — 
Lies  poisoned,  overhead  1 


FRA    GIACOMO. 


Sit  still— or,  by  God,  you  die  ! 
Face  to  face,  soul  to  soul,  you  and  I 

Have  settled  accounts,  in  a  fine 

Pleasant  fashion,  over  our  wine — 
Stir  not,  and  seek  not  to  fly — 

Nay,  whether  or  not,  you  are  mine  1 
Thank  Montepulciano  for  giving 

Your  death  in  such  delicate  sips — 
'Tis  not  every  monk  ceases  living 

With  so  pleasant  a  taste  on  his  lips— 
But  lest  Montepulciano  unsurely  should  kiss, 

Take  this  I— and  this  !— and  this  1 


.  .  .  Raise  him  ;  and  cast  him,  Pietro, 
Into  the  deep  canal  below  : 
You  can  be  secret,  lad,  I  know  .  .  . 
And  hark  you,  then  to  the  convent  go — 
Bid  every  bell  of  the  convent  toll, 
And  the  monks  say  mass,  for  your  mistress's 
soul. 


CHARMIAN. 

Cleo.  Charm  ian  ! 

Char.  Madam? 

Cleo.  Give  me  to  drink  mandragora  ! 

Antony  and  Cleopatra. 

IN  the  time  when  water-lilies  shake 
Their  green  and  gold  on  river  and  lake, 
When  the  cuckoo  calls  in  the  heart  o'  the 

heat, 
When  the  Dog-star  foams  and  the  shade  is 

sweet ; 

Where  cool  and  fresh  the  River  ran, 
I  sat  by  the  side  of  Charmian, 
And  heard  no  sound  from   the  world  of 

man. 

All  was  so  sweet  and  still  that  day  ! 
The  rustling  shade,  the  rippling  stream, 
All  life,  all  breath,  dissolved  away 
Into  a  golden  dream  ; 
Warm  and  sweet  the  scented  shade 
Drowsily  caught  the  breeze  and  stirred, 
Faint  and  low  through  the  green  glade 
Came  hum  of  bee  and  song  of  bird. 
Our  hearts  were  full  of  drowsy  bliss, 
And  yet  we  did  not  clasp  nor  kiss, 
Nor  did  we  break  the  happy  spell 
With  tender  tone  or  syllable. 


But  to  ease  our  hearts  and  set  thought  free, 

We  pluckt  the  flowers  of  a  red  rose-tree, 

And  leaf  by  leaf,  we  threw  them,  Sweet, 

Into  the  River  at  our  feet, 

And  in  an  indolent  delight 

Watch' d  them  glide  onward,  out  of  sight. 

Sweet,  had  I  spoken  boldly  then, 
How  might  my  love  have  garner'd  thee  ! 
But  I  had  left  the  paths  of  men, 
And  sitting  yonder,  dreamily, 
Was  happiness  enough  for  me  ! 
Seeking  no  gift  of  word  or  kiss, 
But  looking  in  thy  face,  was  bliss  ! 
Plucking  the  rose-leaves  in  a  dream, 
Watching  them  glimmer  down  the  stream, 
Knowing  that  eastern  heart  of  thine 
Shared  the  dim  ecstasy  of  mine  ! 

Then,  while  we  linger'd,  cold  and  gray 
Came  Twilight,  chilling  soul  and  sense  ; 
And  you  arose  to  go  away, 
Full  of  a  sweet  indifference  ! 
I  missed  the  spell — I  watch'd  it  break, — 
And  such  come  never  twice  to  man  : 
In  a  less  golden  hour  I  spake, 
And  did  not  win  thee,  Charmian  ! 

For  wearily  we  turned  away 

Into  the  world  of  everyday, 

And  from  thy  heart  the  fancy  fled 

Like  the  rose-leaves  on  the  River  shed  ; 

But  to  me  that  hour  is  sweeter  far 

Than  the  world  and  all  its  treasures  are : 

Still  to  sit  on  so  close  to  thee, 

Were  happiness  enough  for  me  ! 

Still  to  sit  on  in  a  green  nook, 

Nor  break  the  spell  by  word  or  look ! 

To  reach  out  happy  hands  for  ever, 

To  pluck  the  rose-leaves,  Charmian  ! 

To  watch  them  fade  on  the  gleaming  River, 

And  hear  no  sound  from  the  world  of  man  1 


CLOUD  LAND. 

UNDER  green  branches  I  lie, 
Pensive,  I  know  not  why  ; 
All  is  dead  calm  down  here  ; 
But  yonder,  tho'  heaven  smiles  clear, 
Bright  winds  blow,  and  silent  and  slow 
The  vaporous  Clouds  sail  by. 


10 


EARLY  POEMS. 


For  the  branches,  that  here  and  there 
Grow  yellow  in  autumn  air, 
Are  parted  ;  and  through  the  rent 
Of  a  flower-enwoven  tent, 
The  round  blue  eye  of  the  peaceful  sky 
Shows  tearless,  quiet,  and  fair. 

Face  upward,  calmly  I  rest 
As  the  leaf  that  lies  dead  on  my  breast  ; 
And  the  only  sound  I  hear 
Is  a  rivulet  tinkling  near, 
And  falling  asleep  in  the  woodland  deep 
Like  a  fluttering  bird  in  a  nest. 

My  mood  would  be  full  of  grace 
As  an  eremite's  peaceful  face, 
And  I  should  slumber  away 
The  delicate  dreamful  day, 
Save  for  Shapes  that  swim  thro'  the  silence 

dim 
Of  the  blue  ethereal  space  ! 

I  close  my  eyes  in  vain, 
In  a  pensive,,  poetic  pain  : 
Even  then,  to  the  gurgling  glee 
Of  the  Brook  I  cannot  see, 
Silent  and  slow  they  glide  and  they  go 
O'er  the  bright  still  blank  of  the  brain  ! 

With  a  motion  wind-bequeath'd, 
Fantastically  wreathed, 
They  disturb  my  Soul, — as  the  beat 
Of  the  pale  Moon's  silvern  feet 
Broke  the  sleep  forlorn  of  the  Sea  new-born, 
Till  it  audibly  stirr'd  and  breathed. 

White  as  a  flock  of  sheep, 
Slender  and  soft  and  deep, 
With  a  radiance  mild  and  faint 
As  the  smile  of  a  pictured  Saint, 
Or  the  light  that  flies  from  a  mother's  eyes 
On  the  face  of  a  babe  asleep  ! 

Yonder  with  dripping  hair. 
Is  Aphrodite  the  fair, 
Fresh  from  the  foam,  whose  dress 
Enfleeces  her  loveliness, 
But  melts  like  mist  from  the  limbs  sun-kiss' d 
That  are  kindling  unaware  ! 

One,  like  a  Titan  cold, 
With  banner  about  him  roll'd, 
Bereft  of  sense,  and  hurl'd 
To  the  wondrous  under-world, 


And  drifting  down,  with  a  weedy  crown, 
Some  miraculous  River  old. 

One  like  a  bank  of  snows, 
Which  flushes  to  crimson,  and  glows  ; 
One  like  a  goddess  tall 
In  a  violet  robe  ; — and  all 
Have  a  motion  that  seems  like  the  motion 

of  dreams, — 
A  dimly  disturb' d  repose  ; — 

A  motion  such  as  you  see 
In  the  pictured  divinity 
By  the  touch  of  an  artist  thrown 
On  a  Naiad  sculptured  in  stone, 
For  ever  and  ever  about  to  quiver 
To  a  frighten'd  flush,  and  flee  ! 

Beautiful,  stately,  slow, 
The  pageants  changefully  grow  ; 
And  in  my  -bewilder'd  brain 
Comes  the  distinct  refrain 
Of  the  stately  speech  and  the  mighty  reach 
Of  Songs  made  long  ago. 

Into  my  heart  there  throng 
Rich  melodies  worshipp'd  long : 
The  epic  of  Troy  divine, 
Milton's  majestical  line, 
The  palfrey  pace  and  the  glittering  grace 
Of  Spenser's  magical  song. 

Do  whatever  I  may, 
I  cannot  shake  them  away  ; 
They  are  haunting  voices  that  move 
Like  the  wondrous  shapes  above ; 
Stately  and  slow  they  come  and  they  go, 
Like  measured  words  when  we  pray. 

When  the  troublous  motion  sublime 
Of  the  Clouds  and  the  answering  rhyme, 
Ceasing,  leave  now  and  again 
A  pause  in  the  hush'd  heart,  then 
The  brook  bursts  in  with  a  pastoral  din, 
A  gurgling  lyrical  chime  ! 

Oh  !  sweet,  very  sweet,  to  lie 
Pensive,  I  know  not  why, 
And  to  fashion  magical  swarms 
Of  poet-created  Forms 
In  the  pageants  dumb  that  go  and  come 
Above  in  a  windless  sky  ! 


CLOUDLAND. 


ii 


For  yonder,  a  dark  Ship  furls 
Sails  by  an  Island  of  pearls, 
And  crafty  Ulysses  steers 
Through  the  white-tooth'd  waves,  and  hears 
The  liquid  song  of  the  syren  throng, 
That  beckon  through  golden  curls. 

Tis  faded  away,  and  lo  ! 
The  Grecian  tents,  like  snow, 
And  a  brazen  Troy  afar, 
Whence  Helen  glitters  a  star  ; 
And  the  tents  reveal  the  glimmering  steel 
Of  the  gathering  Greeks  below  ! 

In  fierce,  precipitate  haste 
From  a  golden  gate  are  chased 
A  shadowy  Adam  and  Eve  ; 
And  within  the  Gate  they  leave, 
Doth  a  sunbeam  stand  like  the  angel's  brand, 
To  illumine  the  azure  waste. 

The  sunbeam  fading,  behold 
A  huge  Tree  tipp'd  with  gold, 
And  a  naked  Eve  beneath, 
With  the  apple  raised  to  her  teeth  ; 
While  round  and  round  the  Snake  coils, 

wound 
In  many  a  magical  fold. 

Oppress'd  with  fanciful  fears, 
Trembling  with  unshed  tears, 
I  droop  my  eyes,  until 
The  notes  of  the  lyrical  rill 
Are  shaken  like  rain  on  my  eyelids  twain, 
And  another  pageant  appears. 

Far,  far  away,  snow-white, 
Full  of  a  silvern  light, 
Beauteous,  and  yet  so  small 
They  are  scarce  perceived  at  all, 
See  Una  guide  her  Lamb,  by  the  side 
Of  the  mounted  Red-Cross  Knight. 

Then,  to  meet  a  far  foe,  speeds 
The  Knight  over  azure  meads, 
While  threatening  Dragons,  hordes 
Of  Satyrs,  and  tractor  swords, 
Assail  the  Maid,  but  tremble  afraid 
At  the  milk-white  Lamb  she  leads  ! 


And  she  wanders  undismay'd 
Through  vistas  of  sun  and  shade 
Over  a  mountain's  brow 
She  shines  like  a  star  ;  and  now 


She  fading  is  seen  in  the  depths  dark-green 
Of  a  inimical  forest  glade, — 

Which,  opening  flower-like,  shows 
A  Garden  of  crimson  repose, 
Of  lawns  ambrosial, 
Streams  that  flash  as  they  fall, 
In  the  innermost  fold  an  arbour  of  gold 
Like  the  yellow  core  of  a  rose. 

On  the  verge  of  this  fairy  land 
Doth  mailed  Sir  Guyon  stand, 
And  bending  his  bloody  plume 
'Neath  portals  of  snowy  bloom, 
He  enters  the  place  with  a  pallid  face, 
Breathless,  and  sword  in  hand. 

Oh  !  is  it  not  sweet,  sweet,  sweet, 
To  lie  in  this  green  retreat, 
In  a  beautiful  dim  half-dream 
Like  a  god  on  a  hill ;  and  seem 
A  part  of  the  fair  strange  shapes  up  there, — 
With  the  wood-scents  round  my  feet  ? 

But  shadows  lengthen  around, 
And  the  dew  is  dim  on  the  ground ; 
And  hush'd,  to  list  to  the  tune 
Of  the  coming  stars  and  moon, 
The  brook  doth  creep  thro'   the  umbrage 

deep 
With  cooler,  quieter  sound. 

Homeward  ; — but  when  the  pale 
Moon  filleth  her  silver  sail, 
I  shall  sit  alone  with  a  book 
'Neath  another  heaven,  and  look 
On  the  spiritual  gleam  and  the  cloudy  dream 
Of  Milton's  majestical  tale  ; 

Or  wandering  side  by  side 
With  Una,  through  forests  wide, 
Watch  her  beauty  increase 
To  heavenly  patience  and  peace, 
While  the  Lamb  of  light  licks  her  hand 

snow-white, 
And  watches  her  face,  meek-eyed  1 

Or,  'mid  trumpets  murmuring  loud, 
The  waving  of  banners  proud, 
And  the  rattle  of  horses'  hooves, 
See  the  Grecian  host — as  it  moves 
Its  glittering  powers  to  the  Trojan  towers, 
That  dissolve  away,  as  a  Cloud  ! 


12 


EARLY  POEMS. 


CUCKOO  SONG. 

O  KITTY  BELL,  'twas  sweet,  I  swear, 

To  wander  in  the  spring  together, 
When  buds  were  blowing  everywhere, 

And  it  was  golden  weather  ! 
And  down  the  lanes  beside  the  farm 

You  roam'd  beside  me,  tripping  lightly,— 
Blushing  you  hung  upon  my  arm, 
And    the    small    gloved     hand     pres^'d 

tightly  !  .  .  •  . 
And  the  orchis  sprang 

In  the  scented  meadow, 
And  the  throstle  sang 

In  the  greenwood  shadow  ; 
And  your  eyes  were  bright 

With  happy  dew,  — 
Could  I  doubt  a  light 

So  divinely  blue, 
When  you  kiss'd  and  sighed 
'  I  will  be  true '  ?  .  .  . 

Cuckoo  I 

Though  far  and  wide 
The  brown  bird  cried — 

1  Cuckoo  !  cuckoo  !  cuckoo  ! 

O  Kitty  Bell,  the  cry  seem'd  sweet, 
lor  you  were  kind,   and  flowers  were 

springing ; 
The  dusty  willow  in  the  heat 

Its  woolly  bells  were  swinging, 
And  in  its  boll  the  linnet  brown 

Finish'd  her  nest  with  wool  and  feather, 
And  we  had  thoughts  of  nestling  down, 

In  the  farm  by  the  mill,  together.  .  .  . 
And  over  the  hill 

The  breeze  was  blowing, 
And  the  arms  of  the  mill 

Kept  coming  and  goimj  ; 
And  who  but  Love 

Was  between  us  two, 
When  around  and  above 

The  flittermice  flew, 
And  as  night  drew  nigh, 
You  swore  to  be  true  ?  .  .  , 

C^lckoo  ! 
I  heard  the  cry 
From  woods  hard  by — 

'  Cuckoo  /  cuckoo  !  cuckoo  /' 

O  Kitty  Bell,  'tis  spring  again, 
But  all  the  face  of  things  looks  filer  ; 


The  nests  are  built  in  wood  and  lane, 

Butj0«  are  nested  with  the  miller. 
And  other  lovers  kiss  and  swear, 

While  I  behold  in  scorn  and  pity, 
For  'all,1  I  cry,  'is  false  and  fair,' 

And  curse  the  cuckoo  and  Kitty.  .  .  . 
And  over  the  hill 

The  breeze  is  blowing, 
And  the  arms  of  the  mill 

Keep  coming  and  going  ; 
And  the  hidden  bird 

Is  singing  anew 
The  warning  I  heard 

When  I  trusted  you  ; 
And  I  sicken  and  sigh, 

With  my  heart  thrill' d  through  .  .  . 

Cuckoo  t 
Wherever  I  fly 
I  hear  the  cry — 

'Cuckoo!  cuckoo!  cuckoo!' 


THE   WHITE  DEER. 

THE  hunter  leaps  from  slumber, 
And  quits  his  cottage  door  ; 

Days  and  nights  without  number, 
Forth  he  has  fared  before. 

Still  the  old  quest  is  sorest, 
The  hunter's  heart  is  cold  ; 

He  seeks  the  deer  of  the  forest 
With  mystical  horns  of  gold. 

Dim  as  a  dream  it  glimmers 
Through  the  dark  forest  glades, 

Passes  with  starlight  tremors, 
Trances  the  sight  and  fades. 

By  the  dim  quiet  fountain 
Lies  the  print  of  its  form  ; 

Up  mid  the  cloud  of  the  mountain 
Cries  its  voice  in  the  storm  1 

Not  a  bullet  or  arrow 

Hath  reached  its  bosom  yet, 
And  though  the  ways  are  narrow, 

It  steps  through  noose  and  net. 

The  hunter's  cheek  is  sickly, 
Time  hath  silvered  his  hair, 

His  weary  breath  comes  quickly, 
He  trembleth  in  despair. 


THE    WHITE  DEER. 


Many  a  one  before  him 
Hath  been  a  hunter  here, 

Then,  with  the  sad  sky  o'er  him, 
Died  in  quest  of  the  deer. 

See,  the  day  is  dying  ! 

See,  the  hunter  is  spent ! 
Under  the  dark  trees  lying  ; 

Perishing  ill  content. 

Ev'n  as  his  sad  eyes  darken, 
Stirs  the  boughs  of  the  glade, 

He  gathers  his  strength  to  hearken, 
Peering  into  the  shade. 

And  lo,  with  a  soft  light  streaming, 
Stainless  and  dimly  bright, 

Stands  with  its  great  eyes  gleaming 
The  mystical  deer,  snow-white  ! 

Closer  it  comes  up  creeping, 
With  burning  beautiful  eyes — 

Then,  as  he  falls  back  sleeping, 
Touches  his  lips  and  flies  ! 


The  live  foot  ever  fleeing, 

It  comes  to  the  dying  and  dead- 
Oh,  hope  in  the  darkness  of  being  ! 

Methinks  1  hear  thy  tread. 

Around,  above  me,  and  under, 
God's  forest  is  closing  dim  ; 

I  chase  the  mystical  wonder, 
Footsore  and  weary  of  limb. 

Down  in  the  dim  recesses, 
Up  on  the  heights  untrod, 

Eluding  our  dreams  and  guesses, 
Slips  the  secret  of  God. 

Only  seen  by  the  dying, 
In  the  last  spectral  pain  ; 

Just  as  the  breath  is  flying- 
Flashing  and  fading  again. 

White  mystery,  might  I  view  thee  ! 

Bright  wonder,  might  we  meet ! 
Ever  as  I  pursue  thee, 

I  see  the  print  of  thy  feet. 

Ever  those  feet  are  roaming, 

Ever  we  follow  in  quest ; 
While  thou  hauntest  the  gloaming 

Never  a  soul  shall  rest. 


CONVENT-ROBBING. 
(OLD  STYLE.) 

MAY  MARGARET  felt  a  cold  cloud  come 

down  on  her — 
They  made  her  a  nun  and  put  a  black  gown 

on  her ; 

Young  Roland  went  white 
Thro'  the  winter  moonlight, 
Looming  tall  in  the  breath  of  the  frost  every 

night, 
And  gazed  at  the  Convent,  and  plann'd 

how  to  win  her  there, 
And  his  cheek  gather'd  dew  till  the  dawn, 

and  grew  thinner  there. 

'  A  ruse,  ho,  a  ruse  ! '  cried  his  brother,  Clerk 

John,  to  him, — 
When  in  vain  both  the  monks  and  the  leeches 

had  gone  to  him, — 

'  Cease  to  fume  and  to  frown, 
Close  thine  eyes,  lie  thee  down, 
Stretch  thee  straight  on  a  bier  in  thy  chilly 

death-gown  ; 
The  great  bell  shall  ring,  and  thy  house 

gather  gloom  in  it, 
While  I'll  to  the  Convent,  and  beg  thee 

a  tomb  in  it ! ' 

The  Convent  bell  tolls,  hung  with  black  are 

the  porches  there, 
Come   tall    black    pall-bearers  and  pages 

with  torches  there, 
Then  the  bier, — and  thereon 
The  pale  youth  dead  and  gone  ! 
And  behind,  grim  as  Death,  weeping  sore, 

goes  Clerk  John  ! 
And  the  chapel  is  dark,  as  the  bearers  pace 

slow  in  it, 
And  all  the  black  nuns  stands  with  lights  in 

a  row  in  it. 


Ah  !  chill  is  the  chapel,  the  great  bell  chimes 

weary  there, 
Black  bearers,  black  nuns,  and  black  pages 
look  dreary  there ; 

The  youth  lies  in  death, 
Not  a  syllable  saith  ; 
But  the  tiny  frost-cloud  on  his  lips  is  his 
breath  l-~ 


EARLY  POEMS. 


And  the  shroud  round  his  limbs  hath  bright 

armour  of  steel  in  it 
And  his   hand,  gloved  in  mail,  grips  the 

sword  it  can  feel  in  it ! 

Ho,  she  screameth, — May  Margaret !  kneels 
by  the  side  of  him  ! — 

'  White  Mary  above,  be  the  guardian  and 
guide  of  him  ! 

They  plighted  us  twain, 
Yet  we  parted  in  pain, 

And  ah  !  that  so  soon  I  should  clasp  him 
again  ! ' 

Wan,  wan,  is  her  cheek,  with  dim  torch- 
light the  while  on  it — 

Does  she  dream  ?  .  .  Has  the  face  changed  ? 
.  .  and  is  there  a  smile  on  it  ? 

She  holds  his  cold  hand  to  her  heart,  and 

doth  call  on  him, 
Drop  by  drop,  warm  and  scented,  her  tender 

tears  fall  on  him  ; 
The  nuns,  sable-gown'd, 
Chanting  low,  stand  around  ; 
Clerk  John  bites  his  lips,  with  his  eyes  on 

the  ground  .  . 
'  Dear  heart,  that  we  meet  but  in  woe  such 

as  this  again  ! ' 
Then  she  kisses  his  lips  ! — Does  she  dream  ? 

.  .   Did  he  kiss  again  ? 

Who  opens  the  door  with  a  terrible  shout 
at  once  ?  — 

A  great  wind  sweeps  in,  and  the  lights  are 
blown  out  at  once  ! 

The  Abbess  screams  low, 
Moan  the  nuns  in  a  row, 

Thro'  the  porch  sweeps  the  wind  and  the 
sleet  and  the  snow, 

But  the  moon  thro'  the  quaint-colour'd win- 
dows is  beaming  now, — 

And  wonderful  shapes  round  the  bier  gather 
gleaming  now  ! — 

The  sable  pall-bearers  and  pages  are  new- 
arrayed, 

In  armour  that  glitters   like  golden   dew 
arrayed  ! 

How  chill  the  moon  glows  ! 
How  it  blows  !  how  it  snows  ! 
Yet  May  Margaret's  cheek  is  as  red  as  a 
rose  1 


And  'a  miracle,'  murmurs  the  Abbess  so 

holy  now, 
For  shiningly  vested  the  dead  rises  slowly 

now  ! 

He  draweth  May  Margaret's  sweet  blushing 

cheek  to  him, 
She  kisses  him  softly,  yet  strives  not  to  speak 

to  him  ; 

The  nuns  sable-gown'd 
Shiver  dismally  round, 
As  he  lifteth  the  great  sable  pall  from  the 

ground, 
And  turneth  it  deftly,  and  flingeth  it  over 

her,— 
And  a  mantle  of  ermine  doth  clothe  her  and 

cover  her ! 

On  the  floor  of  the  chapel  their  foot-falls 

sound  hollow  now, 
Clerk  John  and  the  rest  very  silently  follow 

now  .  .  . 

Hark  !  is  it  the  beat 
Of  horses'  feet  ? 
Or  the  wild  wind  whistling  in  snow  and  in 

sleet? 
Down  the  aisles  of  the  chapel  the  wild  echoes 

die  away, 
While  fast  in  the  snow-storm  the  happy  ones 

hie  away ! 

'Saints,'   crieth   the  Abbess,    'pour  down 
your  dole  on  us  ! 

To  take  our  sweet  sister  the  devil  hath  stole 
on  us  ! ' 

And  the  nuns,  in  a  row, 
Murmur  slyly  and  low — 

'  Ah  !  would  he  might  come  unto  us  also  ! ' 

And  they  look  at  the  bier,  with  the  tingle  of 
sin  on  them, 

And  the  moon  blushes  faintly,  still  glimmer- 
ing in  on  them. 

Ay,  fast  in  the  snow-storm  gallop  the  lovers 

now ! 
Young  Roland's  warm  castle  their  merriment 

covers  now  ! 

To  the  bower  they  have  run, 
For  the  bridal  is  done, 
And  the  jolly  old  priest  hath  made  them  one  : 
'  May  all  who  love  true,' cries  the  youth, 

'  win  such  kisses,  dear, 
Die  such  death, — and  be  tomb'd  in  a  bower 

such  as  this  is,  dear ! ' 


THE  BALLAD   OF   THE    WAYFARER. 


THE    BALLAD    OF    THE    WAY- 
FARER. 
(OLD  STYLE.) 

O'ER  the  cheerless  common, 

Where  the  bleak  winds  blow, 
Wanders  the  wan  Woman  ; 
Waysore  and  weary, 
Through  the  dark  and  dreary 

Drift-bed  of  the  Snow. 
On  her  pale  pinch'd  features  snowing  'tis 

and  sleeting, 
By  her  side  her  little  Son  runs  with  warm 

heart  beating, 
Clinging  to  her  wet  robe,  while  she  wails 

repeating : 

'Further,  my  child,    further— further  let 
us  go  ! ' 

Fleet  the  Boy  doth  follow, 
Wondering  at  her  woe  ; 
On,  with  footfall  hollow, 
O'er  the  pathway  jagged 
Crawls  she  wet  and  ragged, 

Restless  and  slow. 

'  Mother ! '  now  he  murmurs,  mid  the  tem- 
pest's crying, 

'  Mother,  rest  a  little — I  am  faint  with  flying — 
Mother,   rest   a  little ! '    Still  she  answers 

sighing, 

'  Further,  child,  and  faster — further  let  us 
go! 

But  now  she  is  sitting 
On  a  stone,  and  lo  ! 
Dark  her  brows  are  knitting, 
While  the  Child,  close  clinging 
Tc  her  raiment  wringing, 

Shivers  at  the  snow. 
'Tell  me  of  toy  father!  for  I  never  knew 

him 

Is  he  dead  or  living,  are  we  flying  to  him  ? ' 
'  Peace,   my  child ! '  she  answers,   and  the 

voice  thrills  through  him  ; 
'  When  we  wander    further — further  ! — 
thou  shalt  know." 

(Wild  wind  of  December, 

Blow,  wind,  blow  ! — ) 
'  Oh,  but  I  remember ! 
In  my  mind  I  gather 
Pictures  of  my  father, 

And  a  gallant  show. 


Tell  me,  mother,  tell  me — did  we  always 

wander? 
Was  the  world  once  brighter?    In  some 

town  out  yonder 
Dwelt  we  not  contented  ?  '     Sad  she  seems 

to  ponder, 
Sighing  '  I  will  tell  thee  —when  we  further 

go-' 

'  Oh.  but  Mother,  listen  ! 
We  were  rich,  I  know  ! 
(How  his  bright  eyes  glisten  !) 
We  were  merry  people, 
In  a  town  with  a  steeple, 

Long,  long  ago  ; 
In  a  gay  room  dwelling,  where  your  face 

shone  brightly, 
And  a  brave  man   brought  us  food  and 

presents  nightly. 
Tell  me,  'twas  my  father?'     Now  her  face 

looms  whitely, 

While  she  shivers  moaning,  '  Peace,  let 
us  go  ! ' 

How  the  clouds  gather  ! 
How  the  winds  blow  ! 
1  Who  was  my  father? 
Was  he  Prince  or  Lord  there, 
With  a  train  and  a  sword  there  ? 

Mother,  I  will  know  ! — 
I  have  dreamt  so  often  of  those  gallant 

places  ; 
There  were  banners  waving — I  could  see  the 

faces— 

Take  me  to  my  father  ! '  cries  he  with  em- 
braces, 

While  she  shivers  moaning,  '  No,  child, 
no  !' 

While  the  child  is  speaking, 

Forth  the  moon  steals  slow, 
From  the  black  cloud  breaking, 
Shining  white  and  eerie 
On  the  wayside  weary, 

Shrouded  white  in  snow. 
On  the  heath  behind  them,  'gainst  the  dim 

sky  lying, 
Looms   the   Gallows   blackly,   in   the  wild 

wind  sighing. 
To  her  feet  the  woman  springs  !  with  fierce 

shriek  crying— 

•  See  !  Oh,  God  in  heaven  !  ,  .  .  Woe, 
child,  WOQ  ! ' 


i6 


EARLY  POEMS. 


(Blow,  wind  of  December, 

Blow,  wind,  blow  ! — ) 
'  Thou  canst  not  remember — 
Thou  wert  but  a  blossom 
Suckled  on  my  bosom, 

Years,  years  ago  ! 
Thy  father  stole  to  feed  us  ;  our  starving 

faces  stung  him  ; 
In  yonder  town  behind  us,  they  seized  him 

and  they  hung  him  ! 
They  murdered  him  on  Gallows-Tree,  and 

to  the  ravens  flung  him  ! 
Faster,  my  child,  faster — faster  let  us  go  ! ' 


IN  SPRING-TIME. 

SWEET,  sing  a  song  of  the  May  to  me, 

Sweeten  the  lingering  hours  ! 
Soft  comes  her  whisper  each  day  to  me, 
See,  thro'  the  green  and  the  gray,  to  me  ; 

Thrills  the  faint  flame  of  the  flowers. 
For  the  spell  of  the  winter  is  ended, 

The  rainbow  is  seen  thro'  the  showers, 
And  the  May,  by  fair  spirits  attended, 

Shall  smile  up  the  skies,  and  be  ours.  .  . 
Afar  away  yonder  her  foot  cometh  slow  to 

us — 
She  steals  up  the  south,  with  her  cheeks  all 

aglow,  to  us  ! 
The  blue  waters  tremble  !  the  rain  singeth 

low  to  us ! 
Green  stir  the  blossoming  bowers  ! 


THE  FISHERMAN. 

THE  sea  is  moaning,  the  little  one  cries, 
In  child-bed  sorrow  the  Mother  lies, 
And  the  Fisher  fisheth  afar  away 
In  the  morning  gray. 

The  drift  is  dark  as  the  dawn  appears  : 
Is  it  the  moan  of  the  wind  he  hears— 
Is  it  the  splash  of  the  ocean  foam, 
Or  a  cry  from  home  ? 

He  fisheth  there  that  the  babe  may  eat — 
The  wind  is  whistling  in  shroud  and  sheet ; 
He  looketh  down  from  the  side  of  his  bark 
On  the  waters  dark. 

Sees  he  the  gleam  of  the  foam-flake  there, 
Or  a  white,  white  face  in  its  floating  hair  ? — 


Sea-weeds  salt  that  are  shoreward  drifted, 
Or  arms  uplifted  ? 

His  heart  is  heavy,  his  lips  are  set, 
He  sighs  as  he  draggeth  in  his  net — 
A  goodly  gift  from  the  waters  wild 
To  Mother  and  Child  ! 

The  Dawn  gleams  cold  as  he  homeward  flies 
The  boat  is  laden,  the  new-born  cries, 
But  the  wraith  of  the  mother  fades  far  away 
In  the  morning  gray  1 


THE   CHURCHYARD. 

(A   GENRE    PICTURE.) 

How  slowly  creeps  the  hand  of  Time 

On  the  old  clock's  green-mantled  face  ! 
Yea,  slowly  as  those  ivies  climb, 

The  hours  roll  round  with  patient  pace  ; 
The  drowsy  rooks  caw  on  the  tower, 

The  tame  doves  hover  round  and  round 
Below,  the  slow  grass  hour  by  hour 

Makes  green  God's  sleeping  ground. 


All  moves,  but  nothing  here  is  swift ; 

The  grass  grows  deep,  the  green  boughs 

shoot ; 
From  east  to  west  the  shadows  drift ; 

The  earth  feels  heavenward  underfoot ; 
The  slow  stream  through  the  bridge  doth 
stray 

With  water-lilies  on  its  marge, 
And  slowly,  piled  with  scented  hay, 

Creeps  by  the  silent  barge. 

All  stirs,  but  nothing  here  is  loud  : 

The  cushat  broods,  the  cuckoo  cries  ; 
Faint,  far  up,  under  a  white  cloud, 

The  lark  trills  soft  to  earth  and  skies  ; 
And  underneath  the  green  graves  rest ; 

And  through  the  place,  with  slow  footfalls, 
With  snowy  cambric  on  his  breast, 

The  old  gray  Vicar  crawls. 

And  close  at  hand,  to  see  him  come, 

Clustering  at  the  playground  gate, 
The  urchins  of  the  schoolhouse,  dumb 

And  bashful,  hang  the  head  and  wait ; 
The  little  maidens  curtsey  deep, 

The  boys  their  forelocks  touch  meanwhile, 
The  Vicar  sees  them,  half  asleep, 

And  smiles  a  sleepy  smile, 


THE   CHURCHYARD. 


Slow  as  the  hand  on  the  clock's  face, 

Slow  as  the  white  cloud  in  the  sky, 
He  cometh  now  with  tottering  pace 

To  the  old  vicarage  hard  by  ; 
Smothered  it  stands  in  ivy  leaves, 

Laurels  and  yews  make  dark  the  ground 
The  swifts  that  built  beneath  the  eaves 

Wheel  in  still  circles  round. 

And  from  the  portal,  green  and  dark, 

He  glances  at  the  church-clock  old — 
Gray  soul !  why  seek  his  eyes  to  mark 

The  creeping  of  that  finger  cold  ? 
He  cannot  see,  but  still  as  stone 

He  pauses,  listening  for  the  chime, 
And  hears  from  that  green  tower  intone 

The  eternal  voice  of  Time. 


SEA- WASH. 

WHEREFORE  so  cold,  O  Day, 
That  gleamest  far  away 
O'er  the  dim  line  where  mingle  heaven  and 

ocean, 

While  fishing-boats  lie  netted  in  the  gray, 
And  still  smooth  waves  break  in  their  shore- 
ward motion — 
Wherefore  so  cold,  so  cold? 
O  say,  dost  thou  behold 
A  Face  o'er  which  the  rock-weed  droopeth 

sobbing, 

A  Face  just  stirred  within  a  sea-cave  old 
By  the  green  water's  throbbing  ? 

Wherefore,  O  Fisherman, 

So  full  of  care  and  wan, 
This  weary.weary  morning  shoreward  flying 

While  stooping  downward,  darkly  thou 

dost  scan 
That  which  below  thee  in  thy  boat  is  lying  ? 

Wherefore  so  full  of  care  ! 

What  dost  thou  shoreward  bear 
Caught  in  thy  net's  moist  meshes,  as  a  token? 

Ah  !  can  it  be  the  ring  of  golden  hair 
Whereby  my  heart  is  broken  ? 

Wherefore  so  still,  O  Sea  ? 

That  washest  wearilie 
Under  the  lamp  lit  in  the  fisher's  dwelling, 

Holding  the  secret  of  thy  deeps  from  me, 
Whose  heart  would  break  so  sharply  at  the 
telling  ? 


Wherefore  so  still,  so  still  ? 
Say,  in  thy  sea-cave  chill 
Floats  she  forlorn  with  foam-bells  round  her 

breaking, 
While  the  wet  Fisher  lands  and  climbs  the 

hill 
To  hungry  babes  awaking  ? 


EARTH  AND    THE  SOUL. 

'  CHILD  of  my  bosom,  babe  of  my  bearing  ; 
Why  dost  thou  turn  from  me  now  thou 

art  old? 

Why,  like  a  wild  bird  for  passage  preparing, 
Shrink  from  my  touch  with  a  tremor  of 

cold  ? ' 
'Mother,   I    dread    thee!   mother,  I  fear 

thee! 

Darkness  and  silence  are  hid  in  thy  core  ; 
Deep  is  thy  voice,  and  I  tremble  to  hear 

thee  ; 

Let  me  begone,  for  thou  lov'st  me  no 
more  ! ' 

'  Love  thee  not,   dearest  one,  son  of  my 

splendour, 
Love  thee  not  ?   How  shall  I  smile  thee  a 

sign? 

See  my  soft  arms,  they  are  kindly  and  tender ! 
See  my  fond  face,  flushing  upward  to 

thine  !  ' 
'  Mother,    thy  face  looketh   dreadful   and 

ghastly  ! 

Mother,  thy  breath  is  as  frost  on  my  hair ! 
Hold  me  not,  stay  me  not,  time  speedeth 

fastly, 

Look,  a  kind   Hand  beckons  softly  up 
there ! ' 

1  Child,  yet  a  while  ere  thy  cruel  feet  fare  on  ! 

See,  in  my  lap  lie  the  flowers  of  fhe  May  ; 

See,  in  my  hair  twine  the  roses  of  Sharon  ; 

See,  on  my  breast  gleam  the  gems  of 

Cathay  ! ' 
'  Mother,    I   know   thou  art   queenly   and 

splendid, 
Yet  is  there  death   in  the  blush  of  thy 

bloom  ; 
Touch  me  not,   mother — my   childhood  is 

ended, 

Dark  is  thy   shadow  and  dreadful  thy 
doom. ' 

C 


EARLY  POEMS. 


'  Child,   'twas  I  bare  thee !  child,   'twas  I 

fashioned 
Those  gleaming  limbs,  and  those  ringlets 

of  light, 

Made  thee  a  spirit  sublime  and  impassioned, 
Read  thee  the  Book  of  the  stars  night  by 

night, 

Led  thy  frail  feet  when  they  failed  sorrow- 
laden, 
Whispered  thee  wonders  of  death  and  of 

birth, 

Made  thee  the  heir  of  the  garden  of  Aiden, 
Child,  it  was   I,   thy  poor  mother,  the 
Earth ! ' 

'  Mother,  I  know  it !  and  oh,  how  I  loved 

thee, 

When  on  thy  bosom  I  leapt  as  a  child, 
Shared  each  still  pleasure  that  filled  thee  and 

moved  thee, 
Thrilled  to  the  bliss  of  thy  face  when  it 

smiled. 

Yea,  but  I  knew  not  thy  glory  was  fleeing, 
Not  till  that  night  thou  didst  read  me  the 

scroll, 

Sobbed  in  my  ear  the  dark  secret  of  Being  ; 
Mother,  I  wept — thy  fair  creature,   the 
Soul ! ' 

'Child,  wherefore  weep?    Since  the  secret 

is  spoken, 

Lie  in  mine  arms — I  will  rock  thee  to  rest ; 
Ne'er  shall  thy  slumber  be  troubled  and 

broken, 

Low  will  I  sing  to  thee,  held  to  my  breast. 
Oh,  it  is  weary  to  wander  and  wander  ; 
Child  of  my  fashioning,    stay  with   me 

here. ' 

'  Mother,  I  cannot; 'tis  brighter  up  yonder  ; 
Dark  is  thy  brow  with  the  shadow  I  fear  1 ' 

'  Child,  yet  one  kiss  !  yet  one  kiss,  ere  thou 

flyest  ! ' 
'  Nay,   for  thy  lips  have  the  poison  of 

death ! ' 
'  Child,   one  embrace  ! '     '  Nay,  all  vainly 

thou  criest ; 
I   see  thy  face  darken,   I  shrink  at  thy 

breath.' 
'  Go,  I  have  wept  for  thee,  toiled  for  thee, 

borne  with  thee, 

Pardoned  thee  freely  each  taint  and  each 
stain. 


Take  the  last  love  of  my  bosom  forlorn  with 

thee— 
Seek  the  great  Void  for  a  kinder  in  vain  ! ' 

'  Mother,  I  go  ;  but  if  e'er  I  discover 

That  which  I  seek  in  those  regions  untrbd, 
I  will  come  back  to  thee  ;  softly  bend  over 

Thy  pillow,  and  whisper  the  secret  of  God.' 
'  Child,  thou  wilt  find  me  asleep  in  black 
raiment, 

Dead  by  the  side  of  the  infinite  Sea  ; 
Drop  one  immortelle  above  me  for  payment 

Of  all  the  wild  love  I  have  wasted  on  thee ! ' 


A    CURL.* 
(A  BOY'S  POEM.) 

SEE  !  what  a  treasure  rare 

I  hold  with  fingers  aglow  ! 

— 'Tis  full  of  the  bright 

Subdued  sunlight 
Which  shone  in  the  scented  hair 
Of  a  maiden  I  once  held  fair  ; 

And  I  puzzle  my  brains  to  know 
If  the  heart  of  the  beautiful  girl 

Hath  kept  the  light  of  the  Long  Ago, 
As  long  as  the  yellow  curl  ? 

What  matter  ?    Why,  little  or  none  ! 
She  is  nought  to  me  now,  understand  ; 
But  I  feel  less  sad 
Than  tearfully  glad, 
And  a  passionate  thrill  hath  ran 
Through  my  veins,  like  a  flash  of  the  sun, — 

That  with  so  unheeding  a  hand 
I  can  grasp  a  small  part  of  the  gold 

Which  dazzled  my  wits,  when  I  planned 

and  planned 
For  the  love  of  that  maiden,  of  old. 

See  !  I  crush  it  with  finger  and  thumb, 
Half  in  cruelty,  half  in  jest. — 
As  she  lies  asleep, 
Doth  a  shudder  creep 
Thro'  her  heart,  and  render  it  numb  ? 
Doth  a  sorrowful  whisper  come 

*  As  these  verses  bear  a  certain  superficial  re- 
semblance, in  subject,  to  Mr.  Tennyson's  Poem, 
'  A  Ringlet,'  it  may  be  as  well  to  state  that  they 
appeared  in  print  several  years  before  the  publi- 
cation of  '  Enoch  Ardea,  and  oiher  Poems.' 


A    CURL. 


From  afar,  while  her  lord  is  at  rest 
By  her  side,  and  none  else  are  by  ? 

Doth  she  shiver  away  from  her  husband's 

breast, 
And  hide  her  face,  and  cry  ? 

Is  her  heart  quite  withered  and  sere  ? 

Are  the  pledges  forgotten  yet, 
That,  with  blushing  face, 
In  a  secret  place, 
She  breathed  in  my  burning  ear, 
In  the  morning  of  the  year, 

When,  after  long  parting,  we  met 
By  the  Sea,  on  the  shadowy  lawn, 

And  spake  till  the  sunset  faded  to  jet, 
And  moon  and  stars  made  a  dawn  ? 

As  she  lies  in  her  wifely  place, 
The  wings  of  her  white  soul  furled, 
Does  the  cheek  at  rest 
On  her  husband's  breast 

Grow  scorch'd  with  the  hot  disgrace 

Of  the  kisses  I  rain'd  on  her  face, 
When  the  mists  of  the  night  upcurled 

From  the  ocean  that  night  of  June, 
And  make  a  glamour,  wherein  the  world 

Seemed  close  to  the  stars  and  moon  ? 

By  this  ringlet  of  yellow  hair. 

Still  full  of  the  light  forlorn 
Of  that  parting  spot ! 
Hath  she  quite  forgot 
The  passionate  love  she  bare, 
And  the  hope  she  promised  to  share, 

When  the  ringlet  of  gold  was  shorn, 
And  the  flowers  felt  the  sun  on  the  soil, 

And  the  firefly  stars  went  out  in  the  morn, 
And  I  hurried  back  to  my  toil  ? 

I  could  crush  it  under  my  heel ! 

Hath  she  forgotten  the  clear 
Vision  of  fame 
That  died,  when  her  shame 
Made  my  wild  brain  totter  and  reel  ? 
Hath  she  a  heart  to  feel  ?— 

False  to  her  vows  in  a  year  ! 
False  and  hollow  as  Hell ! 

False  to  the  voice  that  warned  in  her  ear  ! 
And  false  to  her  God  as  well ! 

This  curl  that  she  gave  to  me 
tell  over  her  brow  of  snow, 

So  'twas  near  the  bright 
Spiritual  light 


That  burned  in  the  brain — and  see  ! 
I  am  kissing  it  tenderly  ! 

She  is  asking  for  mercy,  I  know  ; 
So  I  kiss  it  again  and  again, 

For  I  know  some  charm  makes  the  wild 

kiss  glow 
Like  fire  thro'  the  woman's  brain ! 

She  cannot  choose  but  atone  ! 
By  the  brow  where  this  curl  once  gleam' d ! 
She  must  in  sin  thought, 
Against  him  who  bought 
The  heart  already  mine  own, 
And  left  me  weeping  alone. 

'Tis  a  charm,  and  my  loss  is  redeemed  ! 
And  the  sin  'gainst  her  lord  will  be — 
To  remember  how  close  to  the  stars  we 

seemed 
That  night  in  the  mists  by  the  Sea  ! 

She  will  look  on  her  husband's  face, 
She  will  kiss  him  on  the  cheek — 

She  will  kiss,  she  will  smile  ; 
And  all  the  while, 

In  thought  no  other  may  trace, 

She'll  be  back  in  that  perfumed  place, 
Hearing  the  words  that  I  speak, 

Vowing  the  vow  I  believe, 
While  the  sunset  dies  with  a  purple  streak, 

'Neath  the  whitening  star  of  eve. 

And  the  voice  of  the  waves  will  bar 
All  sweeter  sounds  from  her  ears, 
She'll  be  under  the  moon 
Of  that  night  of  June, 
And  the  motion  of  moon  and  star 
Will  trouble  her  from  afar ; 

And  then,  when  the  silver  spheres 
Fade  fitfully  out  of  the  skies, 
And  the  red  dawn  breaks,  she  will  wake 

in  tears, 
And  shrink  from  her  husband's  eyes  ! 

And  in  time,  when  again  and  again 
I  have  kissed  the  magical  gold, 
Those  same  gross  eyes 
Will  be  open  and  wise, 
And  his"  heart  will  be  feverish  pain, 
And  a  doubt  will  arise  in  his  brain  ; 

And  ere  she  is  grown  very  old, 
He  will  know  she  is  frail  as  foam, — 

He  will  see  the  light  of  that  night  in  hei 

cold 
Face,  — and  my  curse  strikes  home ! 

C2 


20 


EARLY  POEMS. 


For  perchance  in  her  yearning  she  may 
Be  bewildered  and  brought  to  blame, 
By  a  new  delight 
So  like  that  night 
With  its  mimical  glamour  of  day, 
That  she  cannot  shake  it  away  ; 

And  following  it  once  more, 
She  will  take  a  path  of  shame, 
While  the  man  blushes  red  at  his  darken'd 

door 
As  the  children  utter  her  name. 

See  !  my  passionate  lips  are  warm 

On  the  curl,  in  a  cruel  bliss — 
In  day  or  mirk 
The  charm  would  work  ! — 
While  she  dreams  of  that  night  till  her  form 
Is  caught  in  the  eddies  of  storm  ! 

There's  a  devil  impels  me  to  kiss, 
And  my  blood  boils  to  and  fro  ; 

She  asks  for  mercy  !  shall  mercy  like  this 
Be  given  my  darling  ?  .  .  .  No  ! 

With  the  world,  as  it  ebbs  and  flows, 
My  heart  is  in  jarring  tune  ; 
Let  the  memory 
Of  her  beauty  be 
Furled  in  a  soft  repose 
Round  my  heart,  like  the  leaves  of  a  rose. 

The  faith,  which  has  faded  too  soon, 
I  bury  with  this  last  cry  ; 

For  the  curl,  still  bright  with  that  night 

of  June, 
Lo !  I  tenderly  put  it  by  1 


LOVE  AND    TIME. 

THIS  is  the  place,  as  husht  and  dead 

As  when  I  saw  it  long  ago  ; 
Down  the  dark  walk  with  shadows  spread 

I  wander  slow. 

The  tangled  sunlight,  cold  and  clear, 
Steals    frost-white    through   the   boughs 
around. 

There  is  no  warmth  of  summer  here, 
No  summer  sound. 


Darnel  and  nettle,  as  I  pass, 

Choke  the  dim  ways,  and  in  the  bowers 
Gather  the  weeds  and  the  wild  grass 

Instead  of  flowers. 

O  life  !  O  time  !  O  days  that  die  ! 

O  days  that  live  within  the  mind  1 
Here  did  we  wander,  she  and  I, 

Together  twined. 

We  passed  out  of  the  great  broad  walk, 
Beyond  the  emerald  lawns  we  strayed, 

We  lingered  slow  in  tender  talk 
Along  the  shade. 

And  then  the  great  old  maze  we  found, 
And  smiling  entered  it  unseen, 

Half  sad,  half  glad,  went  round  and  round 
Thro'  windings  green. 

In  the  bright  centre  of  the  maze 
A  rose-bush  grew,  a  dial  gleam'd 

She  pluck'd  a  rose  .  .  .  with  blissful 
Watch' d  it,  and  dreamed. 

O  life  !  O  time  !  O  days  divine  ! 

O  dreams  that  keep  the  soul  astir ! 
That  hour  eternity  was  mine, 

Looking  at  her  ! 

This  is  the  place.     I  wander  slow. 

Dark  are  the  shades  of  shrub  and  tree, 
The  dial  stands,  the  leaves  lie  low, 

But  where  is  she  ? 

O  life  !  O  time  !  O  birds  and  flowers  ! 

O  withering  leaves  upon  the  bough  ! 
Alas,  she  measures  not  her  hours 

With  roses  now. 

The  dial  stands — the  dark  days  roll — 
From  year  to  year  the  roses  spring — 

Eternity  is  in  my  soul, 
Remembering. 

The  dial  stands — the  summer  goes — 
All  changeth,  nothing  dieth,  here  ! 

And  all  reneweth  like  a  rose, 
From  year  to  year. 


TO  DAVID  IN  HEAVEN. 


Undertones. 


POET'S  PROLOGUE. 
TO  DA  VI D  IN  HE  A  YEN. 

'Quo  di versus  abis?' 

'  Quern  Di  diligunt,  adolescens  moritur.' 

I. 

Lo  !  the  slow  moon  roaming 
Thro'  fleecy  mists  of  gloaming, 
Furrowing  with  pearly  edge  the  jewel  pow- 
der'd  sky  ! 

Lo,  the  bridge  moss-1  den, 
Arch'd  like  foot  of  maiden, 
And  on  the  bridge,  in  silence,  looking  up- 
ward, you  and  I  ! 
Lo,  the  pleasant  season 
Of  reaping  and  of  mowing — 
The  round  still  moon  above,— beneath,  the 
river  duskily  flowing  ! 

n. 

Violet  colour'd  shadows, 
Blown  from  scented  meadows, 
Float  o'er  us  to  the  pine -wood  dark  from 

yonder  dim  corn-ridge ; 
The  little  river  gushes 
Thro'  shady  sedge  and  rushes, 
And  gray  gnats  murmur  o'er  the  pools,  be- 
neath the  mossy  bridge  ; — 
And  you  and  I  stand  darkly, 
O'er  the  keystone  leaning, 
And  watch  the  pale  mesmeric  moon,  in  the 
time  of  gleaners  and  gleaning. 

in. 

Do  I  dream,  I  wonder  ? 
As,  sitting  sadly  under 
A  lonely  roof  in  London,  thro'  the  grim 

square  pane  I  gaze  ? 
Here  of  you  I  ponder, 
In  a  dream,  and  yonder 
The  still  streets  seem  to  stir  and  breathe  be- 
neath the  white  moon's  rays. 
By  the  vision  cherish' d, 
By  the  battle  bravdd, 

Do  I  but  dream  a  hopeless  dream,  in  the 
city  that  slew  you,  David  ? 


IV. 

Is  it  fancy  also, 
That  the  light  which  falls  so 
Faintly  upon  the  stony  street  below  me  as  I 

write, 

Near  tall  mountains  passes 
Thro'  churchyard  weeds  and  grasses 
Barely  a  mower's  mile  away  from  that  small 

bridge,  to-night? 
And,  where  you  are  lying, — 
Grass  and  flowers  above  you — 
Is  mingled  with  your  sleeping  face,  as  calm 
as  the  hearts  that  love  you  ? 


Poet  gentle-hearted, 
Are  you  then  departed, 
And  have  you  ceased  to  dream  the  dream 

we  loved  of  old  so  well  ? 
Has  the  deeply  cherish'd 
Aspiration  perish' d, 
And  are  you  happy,  David,  in  that  heaven 

where  you  dwell  ? 
Have  you  found  the  secret 
We,  so  wildly,  sought  for, 
And  is  your  soul  enswath'd,  at  last,  in  the 
singing  robes  you  fought  for  ? 


In  some  heaven  star-lighted, 
Are  you  now  united 
Unto  the  poet-spirits  that  you  loved,  of 

English  race? 

Is  Chatterton  still  dreaming? 

And.^to  give  it  stately  seeming, 

Has  the  music  of  his  last  strong  song  passed 

into  Keats's  face  ? 

Is  Wordsworth  there?  and  Spenser? 
Beyond  the  grave's  black  portals, 
Can  the  grand  eye  of  Milton  see  the  glory 
he  sang  to  mortals? 

VII. 

You  at  least  could  teach  me, 
Could  your  dear  voice  reach  me 


22 


UNDERTONES. 


Where  I  sit  and  copy  out  for  men  my  soul's 

strange  speech, 
Whether  it  be  bootless, 
Profitless,  and  fruitless,— 
The  weary  aching  upward  strife  to  heights 

we  cannot  reach, 
The  fame  we  seek  in  sorrow, 
The  agony  we  forego  not, 
The  haunting  singing  sense  that  makes  us 
climb— whither  we  know  not. 

VIII. 

Must  it  last  for  ever, 
The  passionate  endeavour, 
Ay,  have  ye,  there  in  heaven,  hearts  to  throb 

and  still  aspire  ? 
In  the  life  you  know  now, 
Render'd  white  as  snow  now, 
Do  fresher  glory-heights  arise,  and  beckon 

higher — higher? 
Are  you  dreaming,  dreaming, 
Is  your  soul  still  roaming, 
Still  gazing  upward  as  we  gazed,  of  old  in 
the  autumn  gloaming  ? 

IX. 

Lo,  the  book  I  hold  here, 
In  the  city  cold  here  ! 
I  hold  it  with  a  gentle  hand  and  love  it  as  I 

may  ; 

Lo,  the  weary  moments ! 
Lo,  the  icy  comments  ! 
And  lo,  false  Fortune's  knife  of  gold  swift- 
lifted  up  to  slay ! 
Has  the  strife  no  ending  ? 
Has  the  song  no  meaning? 
Linger  I,  idle  as  of  old,  while  men  are  reap- 
ing or  gleaning  ? 

x. 

Upward  my  face  I  turn  to  you, 
I  long  for  you,  I  yearn  to  you, 
The  spectral  vision  trances  me  to  utt'rance 

wild  and  weak ; 
It  is  not  that  I  mourn  you, 
To  mourn  you  were  to  scorn  you, 
For  you  are  one  step  nearer  to  the  beauty 

singers  seek. 

But  I  want,  and  cannot  see  you, 
I  seek  and  cannot  find  you, 
And,  see !  I  touch  the  book  of  songs  you 
tenderly  left  behind  you  J 


Ay,  me !  I  bend  above  it, 
With  tearful  eyes,  and  love  it, 
With  tender  hand  I  touch  the  leaves,  but 

cannot  find  you  there  ! 
Mine  eyes  are  haunted  only 
By  that  gloaming  sweetly  lonely, 
The    shadows  on  the  mossy  bridge,    the 

glamour  in  the  air  ! 
I  touch  the  leaves,  and  only 
See  the  glory  they  retain  not — 
The  moon  that  is  a  lamp  to  Hope,  who 
glorifies  what  we  gain  not ! 

XII. 

The  aching  and  the  yearning, 
The  hollow,  undiscerning, 
Uplooking  want  I  still  retain,  darken  the 

leaves  I  touch — 

Pale  promise,  with  much  sweetness 
Solemnizing  incompleteness, 
But  ah,  you  knew  so  little  then— and  now 

you  know  so  much  ! 
By  the  vision  cherish'd, 
By  the  battle  bravdd, 

Have  you,  in  heaven,  shamed  the  song,  by 
a  loftier  music,  David  ? 

XIII. 

I,  who  loved  and  knew  you, 
In  the  city  that  slew  you, 
Still  hunger  on,  and  thirst,  and  climb,  proud- 
hearted  and  alone : 
Serpent-fears  enfold  me, 
Syren-visions  hold  me, 
And,  like  a  wave,  I  gather  strength,  and 

gathering  strength,  I  moan  ; 
Yea,  the  pale  moon  beckons, 
Still  I  follow,  aching, 

And  gather  strength,  only  to  make  a  louder 
moan,  in  breaking ! 

XIV. 

Tho'  the  world  could  turn  from  you, 
This,  at  least,  I  learn  from  you  : 
Beauty  and  Truth,  tho'  never  found,  are 

worthy  to  be  sought, 
The  singer,  upward-springing, 
Is  grander  than  his  singing, 
And  tranquil  self-sufficing  joy  illumes  the 
dark  of  thought. 


TO   DAVID  IN  HEAVEN. 


This,  at  least,  you  teach  me, 
In  a  revelation  : 

That  gods  still  snatch,  as  worthy  death,  the 
soul  in  its  aspiration. 

XV. 

And  I  think,  as  you  thought, 
Poesy  and  Truth  ought 
Never  to  lie  silent  in  the  singer's  heart  on 

earth  ; 

Tho'  they  be  discarded, 
Slighted,  unrewarded, — 
Tho',  unto  vulgar  seeming,  they  appear  of 

little  worth,— 
Yet  tender  brother-singers, 
Young  or  not  yet  born  to  us, 
May  seek  there,  for  the  singer's  sake,  that 
love  which  sweeteneth  scorn  to  us ! 

XVI. 

While  I  sit  in  silence, 
Comes  from  mile  on  mile  hence, 
From  English  Keats's  Roman  grave,  a  voice 

that  sweetens  toil ! 
Think  you,  no  fond  creatures 
Draw  comfort  from  the  features 
Of  Chatterton,  pale  Phaethon,  hurled  down 

to  sunless  soil  ? 
Scorch'd  with  sunlight  lying, 
Eyes  of  sunlight  hollow, 
But,  see !  upon  the  lips  a  gleam  of  the 
chrism  of  Apollo  ! 


Noble  thought  produces 
Noble  ends  and  uses, 
Noble  hopes  are  part  of  Hope  wherever  she 

may  be, 

Noble  thought  enhances 
Life  and  all  its  chances, 
And  noble  self  is  noble  song, — all  this  I 

learn  from  thee ! 
And  I  learn,  moreover, 
'Mid  the  city's  strife  too, 
That  such  faint  song  as  sweetens  Death  can 
sweeten  the  singer's  life  too  ! 

XVIII. 

Lo,  my  Book  ! — I  hold  it 
In  weary  hands,  and  fold  it 
Unto  my  heart,  if  only  as  a  token  I  aspire  ; 


And,  by  song's  assistance, 

Unto  your  dim  distance, 

My  soul  uplifted  is  on  wings,  and  beckon'd 

higher,  nigher. 
By  the  sweeter  wisdom 
You  return  unspeaking, 
Though  endless,  hopeless,  be  the  search,  we 
exalt  our  souls  in  seeking. 

XIX. 

Higher,  yet,  and  higher, 

Ever  nigher,  ever  nigher, 

To  the  glory  we  conceive  not,  let  us  toil 

and  strive  and  strain  1 — 
The  agonized  yearning, 
The  imploring  and  the  burning, 
Grown  awfuller,   intenser,  at  each  vista  we 

attain, 

And  clearer,  brighter,  growing, 
Up  the  gulfs  of  heaven  wander, 
Higher,  higher  yet,   and  higher,    to    the 
Mystery  we  ponder  ! 

xx. 

Yea,  higher  yet,  and  higher, 
Ever  nigher,  ever  nigher, 
While  men  grow  small  by  stooping  and  the 

reaper  piles  the  grain, — 
Can  it  then  be  bootless, 
Profitless  and  fruitless, 
The  weary  aching  upward  search  for  what 

we  never  gain  ? 
Is  there  not  awaiting 
Rest  and  golden  weather, 
Where,   passionately  purified,    the   singers 
may  meet  together  ? 

XXI. 

Up  !  higher  yet,  and  higher, 
Ever  nigher,  ever  nigher, 
Thro'  voids  that  Milton  and  the  rest  beat 

still  with  seraph- wings  ; 
Out  thro'  the  great  gate  creeping 
Where  God  hath  put  his  sleeping— 
A  dewy  cloud  detaining  not  the  soul  that 

soars  and  sings, 
Up  !  higher  yet,  and  higher, 
Fainting  nor  retreating, 
Beyond  the  sun,  beyond  the  stars,  to  the  far 
bright  realm  of  meeting ! 


UNDERTONES. 


O  Mystery  !  O  Passion  ! 
To  sit  on  earth,  and  fashion, 
What  floods  of  music  visibled  may  fill  that 

fancied  place  ! 

To  think,  the  least  that  singeth, 
Aspireth  and  upspringeth, 
May  weep  glad  tears  on  Keats's  breast  and 

look  in  Milton's  face  ! 
When  human  power  and  failure 
Are  equalized  for  ever, 
And  the  one  great  Light  that  haloes  all  is 
the  passionate  bright  endeavour  ! 

XXIII. 

But  ah,  that  pale  moon  roaming 
Thro'  fleecy  mists  of  gloaming, 
Furrowing    with    pearly    edge    the    jewel- 
powder' d  sky, 
And  ah,  the  days  departed 
With  your  friendship  gentle-hearted, 
And  ah,  the  dream  we  dreamt  that  night, 

togethei    you  and  I  ! 
Is  it  fasluon'd  wisely, 
To  help  MS  or  to  blind  us, 
That  at  <?ach  height  we  gain  we  turn,  and 
behold  a  heaven  behind  us  ? 


THE    UNDERTONES. 

Thou  Fame  !  who  makest  of  the  singer's  Life, 

Faint  with  the  sweetness  of  its  own  desire, 

A  statue  of  Narcissus,  still  and  fair 

For  evermore,  and  bending  evermore 

Over  its  beauteous  image  mirrored 

Tn  the  swift  current  of  our  human  days, 

Eternally  in  act  to  clasp  and  kiss  ! 

0  Fame,  teach  thou  this  flesh  and  blood  to  love 
Some  beauteous  counterpart,  and  while  it  bends, 
Tremulously  gazing  on  the  image,  blow 

Thy  trump  aloud,  and  freeze  it  into  stone  ! 

I. 

PROTEUS ; 

OR,    A   PRELUDE. 
I. 

INTO  the  living  elements  of  things 
I,  Proteus,  mingle,  seeking  strange  dis- 
guise : 

1  track  the  Sun-god  on  an  eagle's  wings, 

Qr  look  at  horror  thro'  a  murderer's  eyes,  ' 


In  shape  of  horned  beast  my  shadow  glides 

Among  broad-leaved  flowers  that  blow  'neath 

Afric  tides. 


Lo  !  I  was  stirring  in  the  leaves  that  shaded 

The  Garden  where  the  Man  and  Woman 

smiled  : 
I  saw  them  later,  raimentless,  degraded, 

The  apple  sour  upon  their  tongues  ;  be- 
guiled 
By  the  sweet  wildness  of  the  Woman's  tears, 

I  dropt  in  dew  upon  her  lips,  and  stole 

Under  her  heart,  a  stirring  human  Soul, 
The  blood  within  her  tingling  in  mine  ears  ; 
And  as  I  lay,  I  heard  a  voice  that  cried 

'  Lo,    Proteus,   the  unborn,    shall   wake 

to  be 
Heir  of  the  Woman's  sorrow,  yet  a  guide 

Conducting  back  to  immortality— 
The  spirit  of  the  leaves  of  Paradise 
Shall  lift  him  upward,  to  aspire  and  rise  ! ' 
Then  sudden,  I  was  conscious  that  I  lay 
Under  a  heaven  that  gleam' d  afar  away  : — 

I  heard  the  Man  and  Woman  w  eping, 

The  green  leaves  rustling,  and  the  Serpent 

creeping, 
The  roar  of  beasts,  the  song  of  birds,  the 

chime 
Of  elements  in  sudden  strife  sublime, 

And  overhead  I  saw  the  starry  Tree, 

Eternity, 
Put  forth  the  blossom  Time. 


A  wind  of  ancient  prophecy  swept  down, 

And  wither'd  up  my  beauty  -  where  I  lay 
On  Paris'  bosom,  in  the  Trojan  town  ; 

Troy  vanish'd,  and  I  wander'd  far  away, — 
Till,  lying  on  a  Virgin's  breast,  I  gazed 

Thro'  infant  eyes,  and  saw,  as  in  a  dream, 
The  great  god  Pan  whom  I  had  raised  and 

praised, 
Float  huge,  unsinew'd,  down  a  mighty 

stream, 

With  leaves  and  lilies  heap'd  about  his  head, 

And  a  weird  music  hemming  him  around, 

While,  dropping  from  his  nerveless  fingers 

dead, 
A  brazen   sceptre  plunged  with  hollow 

sound : 

A  trackless  Ocean  wrinkling  tempest-wing'd 
Open'd  its  darkness  for  the  clay  unking'd  : 


PROTEUS. 


Moreover,  as  he  floated  on  at  rest, 

With  lips  that  flutter' d  still  in  act  to  speak, 
An  eagle,  swooping  down  upon  his  breast, 
Pick'd  at  his  songless  lips  with  golden 
beak. 

4- 

There  was  a  sound  of  fear  and  lamentation, 
The  forests  wail'd,  the  stars  and  moon 

grew  pale, 

The  air  grew  cloudy  with  the  desolation 
Of  gods  that  fell  from  realmless  thrones 

like  hail ; 

But  as  I  gazed,  the  great  God  Pan  awaking, 
Lookt  in  the   Infant's  happy  eyes  and 

smiled, 
And  smiling  died  ;    and  like  a  sunbeam 

breaking 
From  greenwood  olden,  rose  a  presence 

mild 

In  exhalation  from  the  clay,  and  stole 
Around  the  Infant  in  an  auriole— 

When,  gladden' d  by  the  glory  of  the  child, 
Dawn  gleam'd  from  pole  to  pole. 


And,  lo  !  a  shape  with  pallid  smile  divine 

Wander' d  in  Palestine  ; 
And  Adam's  might  was  stately  in  his  eyes, 
And  Eve's  wan  sweetness  glimmer'd  on 

his  cheek, 

Andwhenheopen'dheavenly  lips  to  speak, 
I  heard,  disturbing  Pilate  into  sighs, 
The  rustle  of  those  leaves  in  Paradise  ! 
Then  all  was  dark,  the  earth,  and  air,  and 

sky, 
The  sky  was  troubled  and  the  earth  was 

shaken, 

Beasts  shriek'd,   men  shouted,    and  there 
came  a  cry — 

'  My  God,  I  am  forsaken  ! ' 
But  even  then  I  smiled  amid  my  tears, 
And  saw  in  vision,  down  the  future  years, 
What  time  the  cry  still  rung  in  heaven's 

dark  dome, 

The  likeness  of  his  smile  ineffable, 
Serenely  dwell 
On  Raphael,  sunn'd  by  popes  and  kings  at 

Rome, 
And  Dante,  singing  in  his  Tuscan  cell ! 

6. 

Suddenly,  from  the  vapours  of  the  north, 
Ice-bearded,  snowy-visaged,  Strength  burst 
forth, 


Brandishing  arms  in  death  : 
'Twas  Ades,  frighted  from  his  seat  in  Hell 
By  that  pale  smile  of  peace  ineffable, 

That  with  a  sunny  life-producing  breath, 
Wreathed  summer  round  the  foreheads  of 
the  Dead, 

And  troubled  Hell's  weird  silence  into  joy. 
And  with  a  voice  that  rent  the  pole  he  said, 

1  Lo,  I  am  Thor,  the  mighty  to  destroy  ! ' 
The  accents  ran  to  water  on  his  mouth, 

The  pole  was  kindled  to  a  fiery  glow, 
A  breath  of  summer  floated  from  the  south 

And  melted  him  like  snow. 


Yea  thus,  thro'  change  on  change, 
Haunted  for  ever  by  the  leafy  sound 
That  sigh'd  the  Woman  and  the  Man  around, 

I,  Proteus,  range. 
A  weary  quest,  a  power  to  climb  and  soar, 

Yet  never  quit  life's  bitterness  and  stark- 
ness, 

A  groping  for  God's  hand  amid  the  dark- 
ness, 

The  day  behind  me  and  the  night  before, 
This  is  my  task  for  evermore  ! 
I  am  the  shadow  of  the  inspiration 

Breath'don  the  Man;  I  am  the  sense  alone, 
That,  generation  upon  generation, 

Empowers  the  sinful  Woman  to  atone 
By  giving  angeis  to  the  grave  and  weeping 

Because  she  knows  not  whither  they  are 

going ; 
I  am  the  strife  awake,  the  terror  sleeping, 

The  sorrow  ever  ebbing,  ever  flowing. 
Mine  are  the  mighty  names  of  power  and 
worth 

The  seekers  of  the  vision  that  hath  fled, 
I  bear  the  Infant's  smile  about  the  earth, 

And  put  the  Cross  on  the  aspirant's  head, 
I  am  the  peace  on  holy  men  who  die, 

I  waft  as  sacrifice  their  fleeting  breath — 
I  am  the  change  that  is  not  change,  for  I 

Am  deathless,  being  DEATH. 

8. 

For,  evermore  I  grow 

Wiser,  with  humbler  power  to  feel  and  know; 
For,  in  the  end  I,  Proteus,  shall  cast 

All  wondrous  shapes  aside  but  one  alone, 
And  stand  (while  round  about  me  in  the  Vast 
Earth,  Sun,  Stars,  Moon,  as  snowflakes 
melt  at  last, ) 


26 


UNDERTONES. 


A  Skeleton  that,  shadow  d  by  the  Tree, 

Eternity, 

Holds  in  his  hands  the  blossom  Time  full 
blown, 

And  kneels  before  a  Throne. 


II. 

ADES,    KING  OF   HELL. 

i. 

BENEATH  the  caves  where  sunless  loam 
Grows  dim  and  reddens  into  gold  ; 
'Neath  the  fat  earth-seams,  where  the 

cold 

Rains  thicken  to  the  flowery  foam 
Fringing  blue  streams  in  summer  zones ; 
Beneath  the  spheres  where  dead  men's 

bones 

Change  darkly  thro'  slow  centuries  to  marl 
and  glittering  stones  ; — 


Orb'd  in  that  rayless  realm,  alone, 
Far  from  the  realm  of  sun  and  shower, 
A  palpable  god  with  godlike  power, 
I,  Ades,  dwelt  upon  a  throne  ; 

Much  darkness  did  my  eyelids  tire  ; 
But  thro'  my  veins  the  hid  Sun's  fire 
Communicated  impulse,  hope,  thought,  pas- 
sion, and  desire. 


Eternities  of  lonely  reign, 
Full  of  faint  dreams  of  day  and  night 
And  the  white  glamour  of  starry  light, 
Oppress' d  my  patience  into  pain  ; 
Upward  I  sent  a  voice  of  prayer 
That  made  a  horror  in  the  air  : 
And  '  Ades  craves  a  queen,  O  Zeus  ! '  shook 
heaven  unaware. 


The  gods  stopt  short  in  full  carouse, 
And  listen1  d.     On  the  streams  of  Hell 
The  whole  effulgent  conclave  fell 
As  in  a  glass.     With  soft-arch'd  brows, 
And  wings  of  dewy-tinctured  dye, 
Pale  Iris  listen'd  blushingly  ; 
And  Herd  sought  the   soul  of  Zeus  with 
coldly  eager  eye. 


5- 

Then  the  clear  hyaline  grew  cold 
And  dim  before  the  Father's  face  ; 
Gray  meditation  clothed  the  place  ; 
And  rising  up  Zeus  cried,  '  Behold  ! ' — 
And  on  Olumpos'  crystal  wall, 
A  kingly  phantom  cloudy  and  tall, 
Throned,   sceptred,    crown' d,    was    darkly 
apparition'd  at  the  call. 

6. 

1  Behold  him  ! '  Zeus  the  Father  cried, 
With  voice  that  shook  my  throne  for- 
lorn : 

Pale  Hermes  curl'd  his  lips  in  scorn, 
And  Iris  drew  her  bow  aside  : 

Artemis  paled  and  did  not  speak  ; 
Sheer  fear  flush'd  Aphrodite's  cheek  ; 
And  only  owl-eyed  Pallas  look'd  with  pitying 
smile  and  meek. 


A  weary  night  thro'  earth  and  air 
The  shadow  of  my  longing  spread, 
And  not  a  goddess  answered. 
All  nature  darken' d  at  my  prayer  ; 
Which    darkness    earth    and    air   did 

shroud, 

No  starrain'd  light,  but,  pale  and  proud, 
With  blue-edged  sickle  Artemis  cut  her  slow 
path  thro'  cloud. 

8. 

And  when  the  weary  dark  was  done, 
Beyond  my  sphere  of  realm  upsprang, 
With  smile  that  beam'd  and  harp  that 

sang, 
Apollo  piloting  the  Sun  ; 

And  conscious  of  him  shining  o'er, 
I  watch'd  my  black  and  watery  floor 
Wherein    the    wondrous    upper -world    is 
mirror' d  evermore. 


When  lo,  there  murmur'd  on  my  brain, 
Like  sound  of  distant  waves,  a  sound 
That  did  my  godlike  sense  confound 
And  kiss'd  my  eyelids  down  in  pain  ; 
And  far  above  I  heard  the  beat 
Of  musically  falling  feet, 
Hurl'd  by  the  echoes  of  the  earth  down  to 
my  brazen  seat. 


ADES,    KING   OF  HELL. 


27 


And  I  was  'ware  that  overhead 

Walk'd  one  whose  very  motion  sent 
A  sweet  immortal  wonderment 
Thro'  the  deep  dwellings  of  the  Dead, 
And  flush'd  the  seams  of  cavern  and 

mine 

To  gleams  of  gold  and  diamond  shine, 
And  made  the  misty  dews  shoot  up  to  kiss 
her  feet  divine. 


By  Zeus,  the  beat  of  those  soft  feet 
Thrill'd  to  the  very  roots  of  Hell, 
Troubling  the  mournful  streams  that  fell 
Like  snakes  from  out  my  brazen  seat  : 
Faint  music  reach'd  me  strange  and 

slow, 
My  conscious  Throne  gleam'd  pale  as 

snow, 

A  beauteous  vision  vaguely  fill'd  the  dusky 
glass  below.  — 

12. 

When  I  beheld  in  that  dark  glass 
The  phantom  of  a  lonely  maid, 
Who  gather'd  flowers  in  a  green  glade 
Knee-deep  in  dewy  meadow-grass, 
And  on  a  riverside.     Behold, 
The  sun  that  robed  her  round  with  gold, 
Mirror'd  beneath  me  raylessly,  loom'd  white 
and  round  and  cold. 


Soft  yellow  hair  that  curl'd  and  clang 
Throbbed  to  her  feet  in  softest  showers, 
And  as  she  went  she  gather'd  flowers, 
And  as  she  gather'd  flowers  she  sang  : 
It  floated  down  my  sulphurous  eaves, 
That  melody  of  flowers  and  leaves, 
Of  vineyards,   gushing  purple  wines,  and 
yellow  slanted  sheaves. 

14. 

Darkling  I  mutter'd,  '  It  were  choice 
Proudly  to  throne  in  solemn  cheer 
So  fair  a  queen,  and  ever  to  hear 
Such  song  from  so  divine  a  voice  !  ' 
And  with  the  wish  I  upward  breathed 
A  mist  of  fire  that  swiftly  seethed 
Thro'  shuddering  earth-seams  overhead,  and 
round  her  warm  knees  wreathed. 


IS- 


Whereon  the  caves  of  precious  stones 
Grew  bright  as  moonlight  thrown  on 

death, 

And  red  gold  brighten'd,  and  the  breath 
Drew  greenness  moist  from  fleshless  bones; 
And  every  cave  was  murmuring  : 
'  O  River,  cease  to  flow  and  sing, 
And  bear  the  tall  bride  on  thy  banks  to  the 
footstool  of  thy  king  ! ' 

16. 

Then  writhed  the  roots  of  forest  trees 
In  tortuous  fear,  till  tremblingly 
Green  leaves  quaked  round  her.     A 

sharp  cry 
Went  upward  from  the  Oreades  ; 

Low  murmurs  woke  in  bower  and  cave, 
With  diapason  in  the  wave  : 
The  River  eddied  darkly  round,  obeying  as 
a  slave. 

17- 

Half  stooping  downward,  while  she  held 
A  flower  in  loosening  fingers  light ; 
The  quick  pink  fading  from  the  white 
Upon  her  cheek  ;  with  eyes  that  welled 
Dark  pansy  thoughts  from  veins  that 

dart 
Like  restless  snakes  round  the  honied 

heart, 

And  balmy  breath  that  mildly  blew  her  rose- 
red  lips  apart, — 

18. 

She  listen'd — stately,  yet  dismay'd  ; 
And  dimly  conscious  of  some  change 
That  made  the  whispering  place  seem 

strange 

And  awful,  far  from  human  aid  ; 
And  as  the  moaning  Stream  grew  near, 
And  whirl'd  unto  her  with  eddies  clear, 
She  saw  my  shadow  in  his  waves  and  shrank 
away  in  fear. 

19. 

'  Small  River,  flowing  with  summer  sound, 
Strong  River,  solemn  Ades'  slave, 
Flow  unto  her  with  gentle  wave, 
And  make  an  isle,  and  hem  her  round.' 
The  River,  sad  with  gentle  worth, 
Felt  backward  to  that  cave  of  earth 
Where,  troubled  with  my  crimson  eyes,  he 
shudder'd  into  birth. 


28 


UNDERTONES. 


Him  saw  she  trembling  ;  but  unseen, 
Under  long  sedges  lily-strew' d, 
Round  creeping  roots  of  underwood, 
Low  down  beneath  the  grasses  green 
Whereon  she  waited  wondering-eyed, 
My  servant  slid  with  stealthy  tide  : — 
Then  like  a  fountain  bubbled  up  and  foam'd 
on  either  side. 


And  shrinking  back  she  gazed  in  fear 
On  his  wild  hair,  and  lo,  an  isle — 
Around  whose  brim  waves  rose  the  while 
She  cried,  '  O  mother  Ceres,  hear  ! ' 
Then  sprang  she  wildly  to  and  fro, 
Wilder  than  rain  and  white  as  snow. 
1 0  honour'd  River,  grasp  thy  prize,  and  to 
the  footstool  flow  ! ' 


One  swift  sunbeam  with  sickly  flare 
On  white  arms  waving  high  did  gleam, 
What  time  she  shriek'd,  and  the  strong 

Stream 

Leapt  up  and  grasp'd  her  by  the  hair. 
And  all  was  dark.     With  wild  heads 

bow'd 

The  forest  murmur'd,  and  black  cloud 
Split  speumy  on  the  mountain  tops  with  tire 
and  portent  loud  ! 

23- 
Then  all  was  still  as  the  Abyss, 

Save  for  the  dark  and  bubbling  water, 
And  the  far  voice.    '  Bear  Ceres'  daughter 
Unto  the  kingly  feet  of  Dis  ! ' 
Wherefore  I  rose  upon  my  throne, 
And  smote  my  kingdom's  roof  of  stone ; 
Earth  moan'd  to  her  deep  fiery  roots— Hell 
answer'd  with  a  groan. 

24. 

When  swiftly  waving  sulphurous  wings 
The  Darkness  brooded  down  in  fear 
To  listen.     I,  afar,  could  hear 
The  coming  River's  murmurings  ; 
My  god-like  eyes  with  flash  of  flame 
Peer'd  up  the  chasm.     As  if  in  shame 
Of  his  slave-deed,    darkly  and  slow,    my 
trembling  servant  came. 


25- 
The  gentleness  of  summer  light, 

This  stream,  my  honour'd  slave  pos- 
sessed : 

The  blue  flowers  mirror'd  in  his  breast, 
And  the  meek  lamps  that  sweeten  night, 
Had    made    his    heart    too    mild    to 

bear 

With  other  than  a  gentle  care, 
And  slow  sad  solemn  pace,  a  load  so  violet- 
eyed  and  fair ! 

26. 

Him  saw  I,  as,  thro'  looming  rocks, 
He  glimmer' d  like  a  serpent  gray 
Whose  moist  coils  hiss ;  then,  far 

away, 

Lo,  the  dim  gleam  of  golden  locks, 
Lo,  a  far  gleam  of  glinting  gold, 
Floating  in  many  a  throbbing  fold, 
What  time  soft  ripples  panted  dark    on 
queenly  eyelids  cold. 

27- 

Silently,  with  obeisance  meet, 
In  gentle  arms  escorting  well 
The  partner  of  eternal  Hell, 
Thus  flow'd,  not  halting,  to  my  feet 
The  gracious  River  with  his  load  : 
Her  with  dark  arm-sweep  he  bestow' d 
On  my  great  footstool— then  again,   with 
sharp  shriek,  upward  flow'd. 

28. 

So  fair,  so  fair,  so  strangely  fair, 
Dark  from  the  waters  lay  my  love  ; 
And  lo,  I,  Ades,  stoop'd  above, 
And  shuddering  touch'd  the  yellow  hair 
That  made  my  beaded  eyeballs  close — 
Awful  as  sunshine.     Cold  as  snovvs, 
Pale-faced,  dank-lidded,  proud,  she  lay  in 
wonderful  repose. 

29. 

And  all  the  lesser  Thrones  that  rise 
Around  me,  shook.     With  murmurous 

breath, 

Their  Kings  shook  off  eternal  death. 
And  with  a  million  fiery  eyes 

Glared  red  above,  below,  around, 
And  saw  me  stooping  fiery-crown'd  ; 
And  the  white  faces  of  the  damn'd  arose 
without  a  sound. 


ADES,    KING   OF  HELL. 


29 


30- 
As  if  an  awful  sunbeam,  rife 

With  living  glory,  pierced  the  gloom, 
Bringing  to  spirits  blind  with  doom 
The  summers  of  forgotten  life,  — 
Those  pallid  faces,  mad  and  stern, 
Rose  up  in  foam,  and  each  in  turn 
Roll'd  downward,  as  a  white  wave  breaks, 
and  seem'd  to  plead  and  yearn. 


What  time  this  horror  loom'd  beyond, 
Her  soul  was  troubled  into  sighs  : 
Stooping,  throned,  crown'd,  1  touch'd 

her  eyes 

With  dim  and  ceremonial  wand  ; 
And  looking  up,  she  saw  and  knew 
An  awful  love  which  did  subdue 
Itself  to  her  bright  comeliness  and  gave  her 
greeting  due  ! 

32. 
1  Welcome  !  '  —  The  rocks  and  chasms  and 

caves, 
The  million   thrones  and   their  black 

kings, 

The  very  snakes  and  creeping  things, 
The  very  damn'd  within  the  waves, 
Groan'  d  '  welcome  ;  '  and  she  heard  — 

with  light 

Fingers  that  writhed  in  tresses  bright,  — 
But  when  I  touch'd  her  to  the  soul,  she 
slowly  rose  her  height. 

33- 

While  shadows  of  a  reign  eterne 
Quench'd  the  fine  glint  in  her  yellow 

hair, 

She  rose  erect  more  hugely  fair, 
And,  dark'ning  to  a  queenhood  stern, 
She  gazed  into  mine  eyes  and  thence 
Drew  black  and  subtle  inference, 
Subliming  the  black  godhead   there  with 
sunnier,  sweeter  sense. 

34- 

Low  at  her  feet,  huge  Cerberus 
Crouch'd  groaning,  but  with  royal  look 
She  stooping  silenced  him,  and  took 
The  throne  sublime  and  perilous 
That  rose  to  hold  her  and  upstream'd 
Vaporous  fire  :  the  dark  voidscream'd, 
The  pale  Eumenides  made  moan,  with  eyes 
and  teeth  that  gleam'd. 


35- 

Behold,  she  sits  beside  me  now, 
A  weighty  sorrow  in  her  mien, 
Yet  gracious  to  her  woes  -  a  queen  ; 
The  sunny  locks  about  her  brow 

Shadow'd  to  godhead  solemn,  meet  ; 
Throned,    queen'd  ;  but  round  about 

her  feet, 

Sweeten'd  by  gentle  grass  and  flowers,  the 
brackish  waves  grow  sweet. 

36. 

And  surely,  when  the  mirror  dun 
Beneath  me  mirrors  yellowing  leaves, 
And  reapers  binding  golden  sheaves, 
And  vineyards  purple  in  the  sun, 
When  fulness  fills  the  plenteous  year 
Of  the  bright  upper-world,  I  hear 
The  voice  among  the  harvest-fields    that 
mourns  a  daughter  dear. 

37- 

1  Lo,  Ceres  mourns  the  bride  of  Dis,' 
The  old  Earth  moans ;  and  rocks  and 

hills, 

1  Persephone  ; '  sad  radiance  fills 
The  dripping  horn  of  Artemis 
Silverly  shaken  in  the  sky ; 
And  a  great  frost-wind  rushing  by — 
1  Ceres  will  rob  the  eyes  of  Hell  when  seed- 
time draweth  nigh.' 

38. 
And  in  the  seed-time  after  snow, 

Down  the  long  caves,  in  soft  distress, 
Dry  corn-blades  tangled  in  her  dress, 
The  weary  goddess  wanders  slow — 
The  million  eyes  of  Hell  are  bent 
On  my  strange  queen  in  wonderment, — 
The  ghost  of  Iris  gleams  across  my  waters 
impotent ! 

39- 
And    the   sweet   Bow    bends    mild    and 

bland 

O'er  rainy  meadows  near  the  light, 
When  fading  far  along  the  night 
They  wander  upward  hand-in-hand  ; 
And  like  a  phantom  I  remain, 
Chain'd  to  a  throne  in  lonely  reign, 
Till,  sweet  with  greenness,  moonlight-kiss'd, 
she  wanders  back  again. 


UNDERTONES. 


40. 

But  when  afar  thro'  rifts  of  gold 
And  caverns  steep'd  in  fog  complete, 
I  hear  the  beat  of  her  soft  feet, 
My  kingdom  totters  as  of  old  ; 
And,  conscious  of  her  sweeter  worth, 
'Her  godhead  of  serener  birth, 
Hell,  breathing  fire  thro'  flowers  and  leaves, 
feels  to  the  upper-earth. 

III. 
PAN. 

IT  is  not  well,  ye  gods,  it  is  not  well ! 
Yea,  hear  me  grumble — rouse,  ye  sleepers, 

rouse 

Upon  thick-carpeted  Olumpos'  top — 
Nor,  faintly  hearing,  murmur  in  your  sloth 
'  Tis  but  the  voice  of  Pan  the  malcontent ! ' 
Shake   the  sleek  sunshine  from  ambrosial 

locks, 

Vouchsafe  a  sleepy  glance  at  the  far  earth 
That  underneath  ye  wrinkles  dim  with  cloud, 
And  smile,  and  sleep  again  ! 

ME,  when  at  first 

The  deep  Vast  murmur*  d,  and  Eternity 
Gave  forth  a  hollow  sound  while  from  its 

voids 
Ye  blossom'd  thick  as  flowers,  and  by  the 

light 

Beheld  yourselves  eternal  and  divine, — 
ME,  underneath  the  darkness  visible 
And  calm  as  ocean  when  the  cold  Moon 

smoothes 

The  palpitating  waves  without  a  sound, — 
Me,  ye  saw  sleeping  in  a  dream,  white-hair'd, 
Low-lidded,  gentle,  aged,  and  like  the  shade 
Of  the  eternal  self-unconsciousness 
Out  of  whose  law  YE  had  awaken'd — gods 
Fair-statured,  self-apparent,  marvellous, 
Dove-eyed,  and  inconceivably  divine. 

Over  the  ledges  of  high  mountains,  thro' 
The  fulgent  streams  of^dawn,  soft-pillowed 
On  downy  clouds  that  swam  in  reddening 

streaks 
Like  milk    wherein   a  crimson   wine-drop 

melts, 

And  far  beyond  the  dark  of  vague  low  lands, 
Uprose  Apollo,  shaking  from  his  locks 
Ambrosial  dews,  and  making  as  he  rose 
A  murmur  such  as  west  winds  weave  in  June. 


Wherefore  the  darkness  in  whose  depth  I  sat 
Wonder'd  :  thro'  newly-woven  boughs,  the 

light 

Crept  onward  to  mine  eyelids  unaware, 
And  fluttering  o'er  my  wrinkled  length  of 

limb 

Like  tremulous  butterflies  above  a  snake, 
Disturb'd  me, — and  I   stirr'd,  and  open'd 

eyes, 

Then  lifted  up  my  eyes  to  see  the  light, 
And  saw  the  light,  and,  seeing  not  myself, 
Smiled ! 

Thereupon,  ye  gods,  the  woods  and  lawns 
Grew  populously  glad  with  living  things. 
A  rod  of  stone  beneath  my  heel  grew  bright, 
Writhing  to  life,  and  hissing  drew  swift  coils 
O'er  the  upspringing  grass  ;  above  my  head 
A  birch  unbound  her  silver-shimmering  hair, 
Brightening  to  the  notes  of  numerous  birds ; 
And  far  dim  mountains  hollow'd  out  them- 
selves 

To  give  forth  streams,  till  down  the  moun- 
tain-sides 
The  loosen'd  streams  ran  flowing.     Then  a 

voice 

Came  from  the  darkness  as  it  roll'd  away 
Under  Apollo's  sunshine-sandall'd  foot, 
And  the  vague  voice  shriek'd  '  Pan  ! '  and 

woods  and  streams, 
Sky -kissing  mountains  and  the  courteous 

vales, 

Cried  '  Pan ! '  and  earth's  reverberating  roots 
Gave  forth  an  answer,  '  Pan  ! '  and  stooping 

down 

His  fiery  eyes  to  scorch  me  from  my  trance, 
Unto  the  ravishment  of  his  soft  lyre 
'  Pan  ! '  sang  Apollo  :  when  the  wide  world 

heard, 
Brightening  brightlier,  till  thro'  murmurous 

leaves 
Pale    wood-nymphs    peep'd    around    me 

whispering  '  Pan  ! ' 

And  sweeter  faces  floated  in  the  stream 
That    gurgled    to    my    ankle,    whispering 

'  Pan  ! ' 

And,  clinging  to  the  azure  gown  of  air 
That  floated  earthward  dropping  scented 

dews, 

A  hundred  lesser  spirits  panted  '  Pan  ! ' 
And,  far  along  an  opening  forest-glade, 
Beating  a  green  lawn  with  alternate  feet, 
'  Pan  ! '  cried  the  satyrs  leaping.     Then  all 

sounds 


PAN. 


Were  hush'd  for  coming  of  a  sweeter  sound  ; 
And   rising  up,   with  outstretch'd  arms,  I, 

Pan, 
Look'd  eastward,  saw,  and  knew  myself  a 

god. 

It  was  not  well,  ye  gods,  it  was  not  well ! 
Star  -  guiders,    cloud  -  compellers — ye    who 

stretch 
Ambrosia  -  dripping  limbs,   great  -  statured, 

bright, 

Silken  and  fair-proportion'd,  in  a  place 
Thick-carpeted  with  grass  as  soft  as  sleep  ; 
Who  with  mild  glorious  eyes  of  liquid  depth 
Subdue  to  perfect  peace  and  calm  eterne 
The  mists  and  vapours  of  the  nether-world, 
That  curl  up  dimly  from  the  nether-world 
And  make  a  roseate  mist  wherein  ye  lie 
Soft  -  lidded,    broad  -  foreheaded,    stretch'd 

supine 

In  awful  contemplations — ye  great  gods, 
Who  meditate  your  forms  and   find  them 

fair — 

Ye  heirs  of  odorous  rest — it  was  not  well ! — 
For,  with  Apollo  sheer  above,  I,  Pan, 
In   whom   a  gracious  godhead   lived   and 

moved, 
Rose,   glorious-hearted,  and  look'd  down  ; 

and  lo, 
Goat-legs,  goat-thighs,   goat-feet,   uncouth 

and  rude, 
And,   higher,   the  breast  and  bowels  of  a 

beast, 
Huge  thews  and  twisted  sinews  swoll'n  like 

cords, 

And  thick  integument  of  bark-brown  skin — 
A  hideous  apparition  masculine  ! 
But  in  my  veins  a  new  and  natural  youth, 
In  my  great  veins  a  music  as  of  boughs 
When  the  cool  aspen-fingers  of  the  Rain 
Feel  for  the  eyelids  of  the  earth  in  spring, 
In  every  vein  quick  life  ;  within  my  soul 
The  meekness  of  some  sweet  eternity 
Forgot ;  and  in  mine  eyes  soft  violet-thoughts 
That  widen'd  in  the  eyeball  to  the  light, 
And  peep'd,  and  trembled  chilly  back  to  the 

soul 
Like  leaves  of  violets  closing. 

By  my  lawns, 

My  honey-flowing  rivers,  by  my  woods 
Grape-growing,    by  my    mountains    down 
whose  sides 


The  slow  flocks  thread  like  silver  streams  at 

eve, 

By  the  deep  comfort  in  the  eyes  of  Zeus 
When  the  soft  murmur  of  my  peaceful  dales 
Blows  like  a  gust  of  perfume  on  his  cheek, 
There  where  he  reigns,  cloud-shrouded—by 

meek  lives 
That  smoothe  themselves  like  wings  of  doves 

and  brood 

Over  immortal  themes  for  love  of  me — 
I  swear  it  was  not  well. 

Ay,  ay,  ye  smile  ;— 
Ye  hear  me,  garrulous,  and  turn  again 
To  contemplation  of  the  slothful  clouds 
That  curtain  ye  for  sweetness.     Hear  me, 

gods  ! 

Not  the  ineffable  stars  that  interlace 
The  azure  panoply  of  Zeus  himself, 
Have  surer  sweetness  than  my  hyacinths 
When  they  grow  blue  in  gazing  on  blue 

heaven, 

Than  the  white  lilies  of  my  rivers  when 
In  leafy  spring  Selend's  silver  horn 
Spills  paleness,  peace,  and  fragrance. — And 

for  these, 

For  all  the  sensible  or  senseless  things 
Which  swell  the  sounds  and  sights  of  earth 

and  air, 

I  snatch  some  glory  which  of  right  belongs 
To  ye  whom  I  revile  :  ay,  and  for  these, 
For  all  the  sensible  or  senseless  things 
Which  swell  the  sounds  and  sights  of  earth 

and  air, 

I  will  snatch  fresher  glory,  fresher  joy, 
Robbing  your  rights  in  heaven  day  by  day, 
Till  from  my  dispensation  ye  remove 
Darkness,  and  drought  that  parches  thirsty 

skins, 

The  stinging  alchemy  of  frost,  the  agues 
That  rack  me  in  the  season  of  wet  winds — 
Till,  bit  by  bit,  my  bestial  nether-man 
Peels  off  like  bark,  my  green  old  age  shoots 

up 

Godhead  apparent,  and  I  know  myself 
Fair — as  becomes  a  god  ! 

Ay,  I  shall  do  ! 

Not  I  alone  am  something  garrulous,  gods  ! 
But  the  broad-bosom'd  earth,  whose  count- 
less young 
Moan    '  Pan  ! '    most    piteously  when    ye 

frown 
In    tempests,    or   when    Thunder,    waving 

wings, 


UNDERTONES. 


Groans     crouching    from    your     lightning 

spears,  and  then 

Springs  at  your  lofty  silence  with  a  shriek  ! 
Not  I  alone,  low  horror  masculine, 
But  earthquake-shaken  hills,  the  dewy  da^s, 
Blue  rivers  as  they  flow,  and  boughs  of  trees, 
Yea,  monsters,  and  the  purblind  race  of  men, 
Grow  garrulous  of  your  higher  glory,  gods  ; 
Yearning  unto  it  moan  my  name  aloud, 
Climbing  unto  it  shriek  or  whisper  '  Pan  ! ' 
Till  from  the  far-off  verdurous  depths,  from 

deep 

Impenetrable  woods  whose  wondrous  roots 
Blacken  to  coal  or  redden  into  gold, 
I,  stirring  in  this  ancient  dream  of  mine, 
Make  answer — and  they  hear. 

In  Arcady 

I,  sick  of  mine  own  envy,  hollow'd  out 
A  valley,   green  and  deep ;   then  pouring 

forth 

From  the  great  hollow  of  my  hand  a  stream 
Sweeter  than  honey,  bade  it  wander  on 
In  soft  and  rippling  lapse  to  the  far  sea. 
Upon  its  banks  grew  flowers  as  thick  as 

grass, 

Gum-dropping  poplars  and  the  purple  vine, 
Slim  willows  dusty  like  the  thighs  of  bees, 
And,  further,  stalks  of  corn  and  wheat  and 

flax, 

And,  even  further,  on  the  mountain  sides 
White  sheep  and  new-yean'd  lambs,  and  in 

the  midst 
Mild-featured  shepherds  piping.     Was  not 

this 

An  image  of  your  grander  ease,  O  gods  ? 
A  faint  sweet  picture  of  your  bliss,  O  gods  ? 
They  thank' d  me,  those  sweet  shepherds, 

with  the  smoke 

Of  crimson  sacrifice  of  lambkins  slain, 
Rich  spices,    succulent  herbs  that  savour 

meats  ; 

And  when  they  came  upon  me  ere  aware, 
Walk'dsudden  on  my  presence  where  I  piped 
By  rivers  lorn  my  mournful  ditties  old, 
Cried  '  Pan  ! '  and  worshipp'd.     Yet  it  was 

not  well, 

Ye  gods,  it  was  not  well,  that  I,  who  gave 
The  harvest  to  these  men,  and  with  my 

breath 

Thicken' d  the  wool  upon  the  backs  of  sheep, 
I,   Pan,    should  in  these  purblind  mortal 

forms 
Witness  a  loveliness  more  gently  fair, 


Nearer  to  your  dim  loveliness,  O  gods  ! 
Than  my  immortal  wood  pervading  self, — 
Carelessly  blown  on  by  the  rosy  Hours, 
Who  breathe  quick  breath  and  smile  before 

they  die — 
Goat-footed,  horn'd,  a  monster — yet  a  god. 

By  wanton  Aphrodite's  velvet  limbs, 
I    swear,    ye    amorous   gods,    it   was   not 

well  !— 

Down  the  long  vale  of  Arcady  I  chased 
A  wood-nymph,    unapparell'd  and  white- 

limb'd, 

From  gleaming  shoulder  unto  foot  a  curve 
Delicious,  like  the  bow  of  Artemis  : 
A  gleam  of  dewy  moonlight  on  her  limbs  ; 
Within  her  veins  a  motion  as  of  waves 
Moon-led  and  silver-crested  to  the  moon  ; 
And  in  her  heart  a  sweetness  such  as  fills 
Uplooking  maidens  when  the  virgin  orb 
Witches  warm  bosoms  into  snows,  and  gives 
The  colourable  chastity  of  flowers 
To  the  tumujtuous  senses  curl'd  within. 
Her,  after  summer  noon,  what  time  her  foot 
Startled  with  moonlight  motion   milk-blue 

stalks 

Of  hyacinths  in  a  dim  forest  glade, — 
Her  saw  I,  and,  uplifting  eager  arms, 
I  rush'd  around  her  as  a  rush  of  boughs, 
My  touch  thrill'd  thro'  her,  she  beheld  my 

face, 
And  like  a  gnat  it  stung  her,  and  she  fled. 


Down  the  green  glade,  along  the  verdur- 
ous shade, 

She  screaming  fled  and  I  pursued  behind  : 
By  Zeus,  it  was  as  though  the  forest  moved 
Behind  her,  following  ;  and  with  shooting 

boughs, 

And  bristling  arms  and  stems,  and  murmur- 
ous leaves, 

It  eddied  after  her — my  underwood 
Of  bramble  and  the  yellow-blossom1  d  furze 
Flung  its  thick  growth  around  her  waist,  my 

trees 
Dropt  thorns  before  her,  and  my  growing 

grass 

Put  forth  its  green  and  sappy  oils  and  sli  d 
Under  her  feet ;  until,  with  streaming  hair 
Like  ravell'd  sunshine  torn  'mid  scars  and 

cliffs, 

Pale,  breathless,  and  long-throated  like  a 
swan, 


PAN. 


33 


With  tongue  that  panted  'tween  the  foamy 

lips 

As  the  red  arrow  in  a  tulip's  cup, 
She,  coming  swiftly  on  the  river-side, 
Into  the  circle  of  a  sedgy  pool 
Plunged  knee-deep,    shrieking.      Then   I, 

thrusting  arms 
To  grasp  her,  touch' d  her  with  hot  hands 

that  clung 
Like  burrs  to  the  soft  skin  ;  while,  writhing 

down 

Even  as  a  fountain  lessens  gurglingly, 
She  cried  to  Artemis,  '  Artemis,  Artemis, 
Sweet  goddess,  Artemis,  aid  me,  Artemis  ! ' 
And  o'er  the  laurels  on  the  river-side, 
Dark  and  low-fluttering,  Daphne's  hidden 

soul 

Breathed  fearful  hoar-frost,  echoing  '  Arte- 
mis '  ; 

When  lo,  above  the  sandy  sunset  rose 
The  silver  sickle  of  the  green-gown'd  witch 
Which  flicker'd  thrice  into  a  pallid  orb, 
And  thrice  flash'd  white  across  the  forest 

leaves, 
And— lo,   the  change  ye  wot  of:  melting 

limbs 

Black'ning  to  oozy  sap  of  reeds,  white  hands 
Waving  aloft  and  putting  forth  green  shoots, 
1  he  faint  breath-bubbles  circling  in  a  pool, 
Last,  the  sharp  voice's  murmur  dying  away 
In  the  low  lapping  of  the  rippling  pool, 
The  melancholy  motion  of  the  pool, 
And  the  faint  undertone  of  whispering  reeds. 

By  Latmos  and  its  shepherd,  was  it  well  ? 
By  smooth-chinn'd  Syrinx,  was  it  well,  O 

gods? 
Yet  mark.      What  time  the  pallid  sickle 

wax'd 
Blue-edged  and  luminous  o'er  the  black'ning 

west, 
•  I,  looming  hideous  in   the    smooth  pool, 

stooped 
And  pluck' d  seven  wondrous  pipes  of  brittle 

reeds 
Wherein  the  wood-nymph's  soul  still  flutter' d 

faint ; 
And  these  seven  pipes  I  shaped  to  one, 

wherein 

I,  Pan,  with  ancient  and  dejected  head 
Nodding  above  its  image  in  the  pool, 
And  large  limbs  stretch'd  their  length  on 

shadowy  banks, 


Did  breathe  such  weird  and  awful  ravish- 
ment, 

Such  symmetry  of  sadness  and  sweet  sound, 
Such  murmurs  of  deep  boughs  and  hollow 

cells, 

That  neither  bright  Apollo's  hair-strung  lute, 
Nor  Here"s  queenly  tongue  when  her  red 

lips 

Flutter  to  intercession  of  love-thoughts 
Throned  in  the  counsel-keeping  eyes  of  Zeus, 
Nor  airs  from  heaven,  blow  sweetlier.    Hear 

me,  gods  ! 

Behind  her  veil  of  azure,  Artemis 
Turn'd  pale  and  listen' d  ;  mountains,  woods, 

and  streams, 

And  every  mute  and  living  thing  therein, 
Marvell'd,  and  htish'd  themselves  to  hear 

the  end — 

Yea,  far  away,  the  fringe  of  the  green  sea 
Caught  the  faint  sound  and  with  a  deeper 

moan 

Rounded  the  pebbles  on  the  shadowy  shore. 
Whence,  in  the  season  of  the  pensive  eve, 
The  earth  plumes  down  her  weary,  weary 

wings  ; 

The  Hours,  each  frozen  in  his  mazy  dance, 
Look  scared  upon  the  stars  and  seem  to 

stand 
Stone-still,    like    chisell'd  angels   mocking 

Time  ; 
And  woods  and  streams  and  mountains, 

beasts  and  birds, 
And  serious  hearts  of  purblind  men,  are 

hush'd  ; 

While  music  sweeter  far  than  any  dream 
Floats  from  the  far-off  silence,  where  I  sit 
Wondrously     wov'n     about     with    forest 

boughs — 
Through  which  the  moon  peeps  faintly,  on 

whose  leaves 

The  unseen  stars  sprinkle  a  diamond  dew — 
And  shadow'd  in  some  water  that  not  flows, 
But,  pausing,  spreads  dark  waves  as  smooth 

as  oil 
To  listen  ! 

Am  I  over-garrulous,  gods  ? 
Thou  pale-faced  witch,  green-kirtled,— thou 

whose  light 
Troubles  the  beardless  shepherd  where  he 

sleeps 

On  Latmos, — am  I  over-garrulous? 
Nay,  then,  pale  huntress  of  my  groves,  I 
swear 

D 


34 


UNDERTONES. 


The  lily  and  the  primrose  'neath  thy  heel 
Savour  as  fair  as  thee,  as  pure  as  thee, 
Drinking  the  lucid  glamour  of  thy  speed  ; 
And  on  the  cheeks  of  marriageable  maids 
Dwelleth  a  pallor  enviably  sweet, 
Sweet  as  thy  sweetest  self,  yet  robb'd  from 

thee. 
Snow-bosom' d  lady,  art  thou proud?— Then 

hark  .  .  . 

When  last  in  the  cool  quiet  of  the  night 
Thou  glimmeredst  dimly   down  with   thy 

white  nymphs 
And  brush'd  these  dewy  lawns  with  buskin'd 

foot, 

I,  Pan  the  scorn'd,  into  an  oak-tree  crept, 
And  holding  between  thumb  and  finger- 
thus — 

A  tiny  acorn,  dropt  it  cunningly 
In  the  small  nest  beneath  thy  snow-heap'd 

breasts, 

And  thou  didst  pause  in  tumult,  cried  aloud, 
Then  redden' d  like  a  rose  from  breast  to 

brow, 
Sharp-crimson  like  a  rose  from  breast  to 

brow, 

And  trembled,  aspen-hearted,  timorous 
As  new-yean'd  lambs,  and  with  a   young 

doe's  cry 
Startled  amazed  from  thine  own  tremulous 

shade 
Faint-mirror'd  in  the  dark  and  dewy  lawn  ! 

Ha,  turn  your  mild  grand  eyes,  O  gods, 

and  hear ! 

Why  do  I  murmur  darkly,  do  ye  ask? 
What  do  I  seek  for,  yearn  for?— Why,  not 

much. 
I  would  be  milky-limb'd  and  straight  and 

tall 

And  pleasant-featured,  like  Apollo  there  ! 
I  would  be  lithe  and  fair  as  Hermes  is  ; 
And,  with  that  glittering  sheath  of  god-like 

form, 

Trust  me,  could  find  for  it  a  wit  as  keen 
As  that  which  long  ago  did  prick  and  pain 
The  thin  skin  of  the  Sun-God.     I  would  be 
Grand  and  fine-statured  as  becomes  a  god, 
A  sight  divine  conceived  harmoniously, 
A  stately  incarnation  of  my  sweet 
Pipings  in  lonely  places.  There's  the  worm  ! 

Ay,  ay,  the  mood  is  on  me — I  am  aged, 
White-bearded,  and  my  very  lifted  hands 


Shake  garrulously — and  ye  hear,  and  smile. 
By  the  faint  undertone  of  this  blind  Earth, 
Swooning  towards  the  pathway  of  the  Sun 
With  flowery  pulses,  leafy  veins,  whene'er 
She  hears  in  intercession  of  new  births 
My  voice  miraculous  melancholy  old, — 
I  swear  not  I  alone,  a  sensible  god, 
Shall  keep  these  misproportions,  worse  than 

beast's ; 
While  woods  and  streams,  and  all  that  dwell 

therein, 
And  merest  flowers,  and  the  starr'd  coils  of 

snakes, 
Yea,   purblind  mortal    men,   inhale    from 

heaven 

Such  dews  as  give  them  heavenly  seemliness, 
Communicably  lovely  as  the  shapes 
That  doze  on  high  Olumpos. 

Is  it  well? 

Ye  who  compel  the  very  clouds  to  forms 
Beauteous  and  purely  beauteous,  ere  my  raki 
Rends  their  white  ves.ments  into  flowers  to 

make 
My  peaceful  vales  look  lovely, — gods,  great 

gods, 

I  ask  ye,  is  it  well  ? — Ye  answer  not. 
But  Earth  has  answer'd,  and  all  things  that 

grow, 

All  things  that  live,  all  things  that  feel  or  see 
The  interchanges  of  the  sun  and  moon  ; 
And  with  a  yearning  palpable  and  dumb, 
Yet  conscious  of  some  glory  yet  unborn, 
Of  unfulfilled  mysteries,  I,  Pan, 
Prophesy. 

In  the  time  to  come, — in  years 
Across  whose  vast  I  wearily  impel 
These  ancient,  blear'd,  and  humble-lidded 

eyes, — 
Some  law  more  strong  than  I,  yet  part  of 

me, 

Some  power  more  piteous,  yet  a  part  of  me, 
Shall  hurl  ye  from  Olumpos  to  the  depths, 
And  bruise  ye  back  to  that  great  darkness 

whence 
Ye  blossom'd  thick  as  flowers  ;  while  I — I, 

Pan- 

The  ancient  haunting  shadow  of  dim  earths, 
Shall  slough  this  form  of  beast,  this  wrinkled 

length, 

Yea,  cast  it  from  my  feet  as  one  who  shakes 
A  worthless  garment  off ;  and  lo,  beneath, 
Mild-featured  manhood,  manhood  eminent, 
Subdued  into  the  glory  of  a  god, 


PAN— THE  NAT  AD. 


Sheer  harmony  of  body  and  of  soul, 
Wondrous,  and  inconceivably  divine. 

Wherefore,  ye  gods,  with  this  my  prophecy 
I  sadden  those  sweet  sounds  I  pipe  unseen. 
From  dimly  lonely  places  float  the  sounds 
To  haunt  the  regions  of  the  homeless  air, 
Whatever  changeful  season  ye  vouchsafe 
To  all  broad  worlds  which,  hearing,  whisper, 

'  Pan  ! ' 
And  thence  they  reach  the  hearts  of  lonely 

men, 

Who  wearily  bear  the  burthen  and  are  pain'd 
To  utterance  of  fond  prophetic  song, 
Who  singing  smile,  because  the  song  is 

sweet, 
Who  die,  because  they  cannot  sing  the  end. 

It  is  my  care  to  keep  the  graves  of  such 
Thick -strewn    and    deep  with  grass  and 

precious  flowers 

Such  as  ye  slumber  on  ;  and  to  those  graves, 
In  sable  vestments,  ever  comes  the  ghost 
Of  my  forgot  and  dumb  eternity, 
Mnemosyne  ;  but  what  she  broods  on  there 
I  know  not,  nor  can  any  wholly  know, 
Mortal  or  god.     The  seasons  come  and  go, 
In  their  due  season  perish  rocks  and  trees, 
In  their  due  season  are  the  streams  drain'd 

dry; 
Earth  dumbly  changes,   and   those  lonely 

men, 
Less  blind  than  purblind  mortals,  sing  and 

die; 

But  still,  with  hooded  and  dejected  head, 
Above  those  graves  ponders  Mnemosyne  ; 
While  I  remain  to  pipe  my  ditties  old, 
And  my  new  prophecy,  in  ancient  woods 
And  by  the  margins  of  unfortunate  pools, — 
My  wondrous  music  dying  afar  away 
Upon  the  fringes  of  the  setting  sun. 

IV. 
THE  NAIAD. 

i. 
DIAN  white-arm'd  has  given  me  this  cool 

shrine, 
Deep  in  the  bosom  of  a  wood  of  pine  : 

The  silver-sparkling  showers 

That  close  me  in,  the  flowers 
That  prink  my  fountain's  brim,   are  hers 

and  mine  ; 


And  when  the  days  are  mild  and  fair, 
And  grass  is  springing,  buds  are  bio  wing, 
Sweet  it  is,  'mid  waters  flowing, 

Here  to  sit,  and  know  no  care, 
'Mid  the  waters  flowing,  flowing,  flow- 
ing, 

Combing  my  yellow,  yellow  hair. 


The  ounce  and  panther  down  the  mountain- 
side 

Creep  thro'  dark  greenness  in  the  eventide  ; 
And  at  the  fountain's  brink 
Casting  great  shades  they  drink, 
Gazing  upon  me,  tame  and  sapphire-eyed ; 
For,  awed  by  my  pale  face,  whose  light 
Gleameth  thro'  sedge  and  lilies  yellow, 
They,  lapping  at  my  fountain  mellow, 
Harm  not  the  lamb  that  in  affright 
Throws  in  the  pool  so  mellow,  mellow, 

mellow, 
Its  shadow  small  and  dusky-white. 


Oft  do  the  fauns  and  satyrs,  flusht  with  play, 
Come  to  my  coolness  in  the  hot  noon-day. 
Nay,  once  indeed,  I  vow 
By  Dian's  truthful  brow, 
The  great  god  Pan  himself  did  pass  this  way, 
And,  all  in  festal  oak-leaves  clad, 

His  limbs  among  these  lilies  throwing, 
Watch 'd  the  silver  waters  flowing, 
Listen'd  to  their  music  glad, 
Saw  and  heard  them  flowing,  flowing, 

flowing, 
And  ah  !  his  face  was  worn  and  sad ! 


Mild  joys  around  like  silvery  waters  fall ; 
But  it  is  sweetest,  sweetest  far  of  all, 
In  the  calm  summer  night, 
When  the  tree-tops  look  white, 
To  be  exhaled  in  dew  at  Dian's  call, 
Among  my  sister-clouds  to  move 
Over  the  darkness  earth  bedimming, 
Milky-robed  thro'  heaven  swimming, 
Floating  round  the  stars  above, 
Swimming  proudly,  swimming,  proudly 

swimming, 
And  waiting  on  the  Moon  I  love. 

S. 

So  tenderly  I  keep  this  cool  green  shrine* 
Deep  in  the  bosom  of  a  wood  of  pine  ; 


UNDERTONES. 


Faithful  thro"  shade  and  sun, 

That  service  due  and  done 
May  haply  earn  for  me  a  place  divine 
Among  the  white-robed  deities 

That  thread  thro' starry  paths,  attending 

My  sweet  Lady,  calmly  wending 
Thro'  the  silence  of  the  skies, 

Changing  in  hues  of  beauty  never  end 

ing, 
Drinking  the  light  of  Dian's  eyes. 

V. 

THE   SATYR. 

I. 

THE  trunk  of  this  tree, 

Dusky-leaved,  shaggy-rooted, 

Is  a  pillow  well  suited 
To  a  hybrid  like  me, 

Goat-bearded,  goat-footed  ; 
For  the  boughs  of  the  glade 

Meet  above  me,  and  throw 
A  cool  pleasant  shade 

On  the  greenness  below  ; 
Dusky  and  brown'd 

Close  the  leaves  all  around  ; 
And  yet,  all  the  while, 

Thro'  the  boughs  I  can  see 
A  star,  with  a  smile, 

Looking  at  me. 


Full  length  I  lie, 
On  this  mossy  tree-knot, 

With  face  to  the  sky, 
The  vast  blue  I  see  not ; 

And  I  start  in  surprise 
From  my  dim  half-dream, 
With  the  moist  white  gleam 

Of  the  star  in  mine  eyes  : 
So  strange  does  it  seem 
That  the  star  should  beam 

From  her  crystal  throne 
On  this  forest  nook 
Of  all  others,  and  l9ok 

Upon  me  alone  : 

Ay,  that  yonder  divine 
Soft  face 
Should  shine 

On  this  one  place  ; 

And,  when  things  so  fair 

Till  the  earth  and  air, 


Should  choose  to  be, 
Night  after  night, 
The  especial  light 

Of  a  monster  like  me  1 


Why,  all  day  long, 

I  run  about 
With  a  madcap  throng, 

And  laugh  and  shout. 
Silenus  grips 

My  ears,  and  strides 
On  my  shaggy  hips, 
And  up  and  down 
In  an  ivy  crown 

Tipsily  rides  ; 
And  when  in  a  doze 
His  eyelids  close, 

Off  he  tumbles,  and  I 
Can  his  wine-skin  steal, 
I  drink — and  feel 

The  grass  roll — sea-high  ! 
Then  with  shouts  and  yells, 
Down  mossy  dells, 
I  stagger  after 

The  wood-nymphs  fleet, 
Who  with  mocking  laughter 

And  smiles  retreat ; 
And  just  as  I  clasp 

A  yielding  waist, 

With  a  cry  embraced, 
Gush  !  it  melts  from  my  grasp 

Into  water  cool, 
And— bubble  !  trouble  ! 
Seeing  double ! 
I  stumble  and  gasp 

In  some  icy  pool  1 


All  suborn  me, 
Flout  me,  scorn  me  ! 
Drunken  joys 

And  cares  are  mine, 
Romp  and  noise, 

And  the  dregs  of  wine  ; 
And  whene'er  in  the  night 

Diana  glides  by 

The  spot  where  I  lie, 
With  her  maids  green-dight, 

I  must  turn  my  back 
In  a  rude  affright, 

And  blindly  fly 

From  her  shining  track  ! 


THE   SATYR. 


37 


Or  if  only  I  hear 

Her  bright  foot-fall  near, 

Fall  with  face  to  the  grass, 
Not  breathing  for  fear 

Till  I  feel  her  pass. 

I  am  — 

I  know  not  what  : 
Neither  what  I  am, 

Nor  what  I  am  not — 
I  seem  to  have  rollick' d, 

And  frolick'd, 
In  this  wood  for  ay, 

With  a  beast's  delight 
Romping  all  day, 

Dreaming  all  night  ! 
Yet  I  seem 

To  remember  awaking 

Just  here,  and  aching 

With  th2  last  forsaking 

Tender  gleam 
Of  a  droll  strange  dream. — 
When  I  lay  at  mine  ease, 

With  a  sense  at  my  heart 

Of  being  a  part 
Of  the  grass  and  trees 
And  the  scented  earth, 

And  of  drinking  the  bright 

Subdued  sunlight 
With  a  leafy  mirth  : 
Then  behold,  I  could  see 

A  wood-nymph  peeping 
Out  of  her  tree, 

And  closer  creeping, 
Timorously 
Looking  at  me ! 
And  still,  so  still, 
I  lay  until 

She  trembled  close  to  me, 

Soft  as  a  rose  to  me, 
And  I  leapt  with  a  thrill 

And  a  shout,  and  threw 
Arms  around  her,  and  press'd  her, 
Kiss'd  her,  caress'd  her, — 

Ere  she  scream'd,  and  flew. 


Then  I  was  'ware 

Of  a  power  I  had — 
To  drink  the  air, 

Laugh  and  shout, 

Run  about, 


And  be  consciously  glad — 
So  I  follow' d  the  maiden 

'Neath  shady  eaves, 
Thro'  groves  deep-laden 

With  fruit  and  leaves, 
Till,  drawing  near 
To  a  brooklet  clear, 
I  shuddering  fled 

From  the  monstrous  shape 
There  mirrored — 
Which  seem'd  to  espy  me, 

And  grin  and  gape, 
And  leap  up  high 
In  the  air  with  a  cry, 
And  fly  me  1 


Whence  I  seem  to  have  slowly 

Grown  conscious  of  being 
A  thing  wild,  unholy, 

And  foul  to  the  seeing. — 
But  ere  I  knew  aught 

Of  others  like  me, 
I  would  lie,  fancy-fraught, 
In  the  greenness  of  thought, 

Beneath  a  green  tree  ; 
And  seem  to  be  deep  t 

In  the  scented  earth-shade 

'Neath  the  grass  of  the  glade, 
In  a  strange  half-sleep  : 
When  the  wind  seem'd  to  move  me, 

The  cool  rain  to  kiss, 
The  sunlight  to  love  me, 

The  stars  in  their  bliss 
To  tingle  above  me  ; 
And  I  crept  thro'  deep  bowers 
That  were  sparkling  with  showers 

And  sprouting  for  pleasure, 
And  I  quicken' d  the  flowers 

To  a  joy  without  measure — 
Till  my  sense  seem'd  consuming 

With  warmth,  and,  upspringing, 
I  saw  the  flowers  blooming, 

And  heard  the  birds  singing  ! 


Wherever  I  range, 
Thro'  the  greenery, 

That  vision  strange, 
Whatsoever  it  be, 
Is  a  part  of  me 

Which  suffers  not  change.- 


UNDERTONES. 


The  changes  of  earth, 

Water,  air,  ever-stirring, 

Disturb  me,  conferring 
My  sadness  or  mirth  : 
Wheresoever  I  run, 
I  drink  strength  from  the  sun  ; 
The  wind  stirs  my  veins 

With  the  leaves  of  the  wood, 
The  dews  and  the  rains 

Mingle  into  my  blood. 
I  stop  short 
In  my  sport, 

Panting,  and  cower, 
While  the  blue  skies  darken 

With  a  sunny  shower  ; 
And  I  lie  and  hearken. 

In  a  balmy  pain 
To  the  tinkling  clatter, 
Fitter,  patter, 

Of  the  rain 
On  the  leaves  close  to  me, 

And  sweet  thrills  pass 
Thro*  and  thro'  me, 

Till  I  tingle  like  grass. 
When  lightning  with  noise 

Tears  the  wood's  green  ceiling, 
When  the  black  sky's  voice 

Is  terribly  pealing, 
I  hide  me,  hide  me,  hide  me, 

With  wild  averted  face, 

In  some  terror-stricken  place, 
While  flowers  and  trees  beside  me, 

And  every  streamlet  near, 
Darken  whirl,  and  wonder, 
Above,  around,  and  under, 
And  murmur  back  the  thunder 

In  a  palpitating  fear  ! 

9- 
Ay ;  and  when  the  earth  turns 

A  soft  bosom  of  balm 
To  the  darkness  that  yearns 

Above  it,  and  grows 

To  dark,  dewy,  and  calm 

Repose, — 

I,  apart  from  rude  riot, 
Partake  of  the  quiet 

The  night  is  bequeathing, 
Lie,  unseen  and  unheard, 
In  the  greenness  just  stirr'd 

By  its  own  soft  breathing — 
And  my  heart  then  thrills 

With  a  strange  sensation 


Like  the  purl  of  rills 
Down  moonlit  hills 

That  loom  afar, 
With  a  sweet  sensation 
Like  the  palpitation 

Of  yonder  star ! 


Thro'  yonder  bough 

Her  white  ray  twinkles  ; 
And  on  my  brow 

She  silently  sprinkles 
A  dewy  rain, 
That  lulls  my  brain 
To  a  dream  of  being 

Under  the  ground, 
Blind  to  seeing. 

Deaf  to  sound, 
Drinking  a  dew 

That  drops  from  afar, 
And  feeling  unto 

The  sweet  pulse  of  a  star, 
Who  is  beckoning  me 
Though  I  cannot  see  ! 
And  of  suddenly  blooming 

Up  into  the  air, 
And,  swooning,  assuming 

The  shape  I  wear  ! 
While  all  fair  things 

Fly  night  and  day  from  me, 
Wave  bright  wings, 

And  glimmer  away  from  me  ! 


— She  shines  above  me, 

And  heareth  not, 

Though  she  smiles  on  this  spot 
And  seems  to  love  me. 
Here  I  lie  aloof, 

Goat-footed,  knock-kneed, 

A  monster,  indeed, 
From  horns  to  hoof ; 
And  the  star  burns  clearly 

With  pearl-white  gleam — 
Have  I  merely 

Dream'd  a  dream  ? 


— Did  she  hear  me,  I  wonder  ? — 
She  trembles  upon 
Her  throne — and  is  gone  I 

The  boughs  darken  under, 


THE  SATYR— VENUS   ON  THE  SUN-CAR. 


Then  thrill,  and  are  stirr'd 

By  the  notes  of  a  bird, 
The  green  grass  brightens 

With  pearly  dew, 
And  the  whole  wood  whitens 

As  the  dawn  creeps  thro'. — 
1  Hoho  ! ' — that  shout 
Flung  the  echoes  about 

The  boughs,  like  balls  ! 

Who  calls  ?— 
'Tis  the  noisy  rout 
Of  my  fellows  upspringing 

From  sleep  and  dreaming, 
To  the  birds'  shrill  singing, 

The  day's  soft  beaming  : 
And  they  madly  go 
To  and  fro, 

Though  o'  nights  they  are  dumb. 
Hoho  !  hoho  ! 

I  come  !  I  come  ! 
Hark  ! — to  the  cry 
They  reply  : 
'  Ha,  there,  ha  ! ' 
'  Hurrah  ! ' — '  hurrah  ! ' 

And  startling  afraid 
At  the  cries, 

In  the  depths  of  the  glade 
Echo  replies — 

1  Ho,  there  ! '— '  ho,  there  !  '— 
By  the  stream  below  there 

The  answer  dies. 


VI. 

VENUS  ON   THE  SUN-CAR. 


TELL  me,  thou  many-finger'd  Frost, 
Coming  and  going  like  a  ghost 

In  leafless  woods  forsaken — 
O  Frost  that  o'er  him  lying  low 
Drawest  the  garment  of  the  snow 

From  silver  cloud-wings  shaken, 
And  round  bare  boughs  with  strange  device 
Twinest  fantastic  leaves  of  ice — 

When  will  Adon  waken  ? 
Lo,  dawn  by  dawn  I  rise  afar 
Beside  Apollo  in  his  car, 

And,  far  below  us  wreathing, 
Thy  fogs  and  mists  are  duskly  curl'd 
Round  the  white  slumber  of  the  world, 

Like  to  its  own  deep  breathing  ; 


But  crimson  thro'  the  mist  our  light 
Foameth  and  freezeth,  till  by  night 

Snow-bosom'd  hills  we  fade  on — 
The  pallid  god,  at  my  desire, 
Gives  unto  thee  a  breath  of  fire 

To  reach  the  lips  of  Adon. 


Tell  me,  thou  bare  and  wintry  World, 
Wherein  the  winged  flowers  are  curl'd 

Like  pigmy  spirits  dozing — 
O  World,  within  whose  lap  he  lies, 
With  thy  quick  earth  upon  his  eyes, 

In  dim  unseen  reposing, 
Husht  underneath  the  wind  and  storm, 
Still  rosy-lipt  in  darkness  warm — 

Are  Aden's  eyes  unclosing  ? 
Lo,  dawn  by  dawn  I  rise  af?.r 
Beside  Apollo  in  his  car, 

Thro'  voids  of  azure  soaring, 
And  gazing  down  on  regions  dead, 
With  golden  hair  dishevelled, 

And  clasped  hands  imploring. 
Wonderful  creatures  of  the  light 
Hover  above  thee,  hanging  bright 

Faint  pictures  glen  and  glade  on  : 
The  pallid  god,  at  my  desire, 
Hideth  in  glimmering  snows  his  fire, 

To  reach  the  sleep  of  Adon. 


Tell  me,  thou  spirit  of  the  Sun, 
Radiant-lock'd  and  awful  one, 

Strong,  constant,  unforsaking — 
Sun,  by  whose  shadier  side  I  sit 
And  search  thy  face,  and  question  it, 

Conferring  light  and  taking — 
Whose  fiery  westward  motion  throws 
The  shadow-hours  on  his  repose, — 

Is  my  Adon  waking  ? 
Lo,  dawn  by  dawn  I  rise  afar 
Beside  thee  in  thy  flaming  car, 

Thou  ever-constant  comer  ! 
And  flashing  on  the  clouds  that  break 
Around  our  path  thy  sunbeams  make 

A  phantom  of  the  summer. 
O  breathe  upon  the  Moon,  that  she 
May  use  her  magic  witchery 

When  snowy  hills  we  fade  on, 
That,  in  the  dark,  when  thou  art  gone, 
She  speed  the  resurrection, 

And  stir  the  sleep  of  Adon  ! 


UNDERTONES. 


Tell  me,  O  silver-winged  Moon, 
That  glidest  to  melodious  tune 

Ice-sparkling  skies  on  skies  up, — 
O  Moon,  that  to  the  sunset  gray, 
Drinking  faint  light  that  fades  away, 

Liftest  immortal  eyes  up, 
And  walking  on,  art  thro'  the  night 
Troubled  to  pain  by  that  strange  light, — 

When  will  Adon  rise  up  ? 
Lo,  dawn  by  dawn  I  rise  afar 
Beside  Apollo  in  his  car, 

Imploring  sign  or  token 
But  night  by  night  such  pale  peace  beams 
Upon  his  slumber,  that  it  seems 

Too  beauteous  to  be  broken  ! 

0  gentle  goddess,  be  not  cold — 
But,  some  dim  dawn,  may  we  behold 

New  glory  hill  and  glade  on, 
The  leaves  and  flowers  alive  to  bliss, 
And,  somewhat  pale  with  thy  last  kiss, 

The  smiling  face  of  Adon  I 

VII. 

SELENE  THE  MOON, 
i. 

1  HIDE  myself  in  the  cloud  that  flies 
From  the  west  and  drops  on  the  hill's  gray 

shoulder, 
And  I  gleam  through  the  cloud  with  my 

panther-eyes, 
While  the  stars  turn  paler,  the  dews  grow 

colder ; 
I  veil  my  naked  glory  in  mist, 

Quivering  downward  and  dewily  glistening, 
Till  his  sleep  is  as  pale  as  my  lips  unkist, 
And  I  tremble  above  him,  panting  and 

listening. 

As  white  as  a  star,  as  cold  as  a  stone, 
Dim  as  my  light  in  a  sleeping  lake, 
With  his  head  on  his  arm  he  lieth  alone. 

And  I  sigh  '  Awake ! 
Wake,  Endymion,  wake  and  see  ! ' 
And  he  stirs  in  his  sleep  for  the  love  of  me  ; 
But  on  his  eyelids  my  breath  I  shake  : 
'  Endymion,  Endymion ! 
Awaken,  awaken  ! ' 
And  the  yellow  grass  stirs  with  the  mystic 

moan, 

And  the  tall  pines  groan, 
And  Echo  sighs  in  her  grot  forsaken 
The  name  of  Endymion  ! 


A  foamy  dew  from  the  Ocean  old, 

Whence  I  rise  with  shadows  behind  me 

flying, 

Drops  from  my  sandals  and  glittereth  cold 
On  the  long  spear-grass  where  my  love  is 

lying  ; 

My  face  is  dim  with  departed  suns, 
And  my  eyes  are  dark  from  the  depths  of 

ocean, 

A  starry  shudder  throughout  me  runs, 
And  my  pale  cloud  stirs  with  a  radiant 

motion, 
When  the  darkness  wherein  he  slumbers 

alone 
Ebbs  back  from  my  brightness,  as  black 

waves  break 
From  my  shiningankle  with  shuddering  tone ; 

And  I  sigh  '  Awake  ! 
Wake,  Endymion,  wake  and  hear  1 ' 
And  he  stirs  in  his  sleep  with  a  dreamy  fear, 
And  his  thin  lips  part  for  my  sweet  sake  : 
'  Endymion,  Endymion  1 
Awaken,  awaken  ! ' 
And  the  skies  are  moved,  and  a  shadow  is 

blown 

From  the  Thunderer's  throne, 
And  the  spell  of  a  voice  from  Olumpos  shaken 
Echoes  '  Endymion  ! ' 


Then  under  his  lids  like  a  balmy  rain 

I  put  pale  dreams  of  my  heavenly  glory ; — 
And  he  sees  me  lead  with  a  silver  chain 
The  tamedSea-Tempestwhite-tooth'd  and* 

hoary  ; 

And  he  sees  me  fading  thro'  forests  dark 
Where  the  leopard  and  lion  avoid  me  in 

wonder, 

Or  ploughing  the  sky  in  a  pearly  bark, 
While  the  earth  is  dumb  with  my  beauty 

under ! 
Then  he  brightens  and  yearns  where  he  lies 

alone, 
And  his  heart  grows  dumb  with  a  yearning 

ache, 
And  the  thin  lips  part  with  a  wondering  moan, 

As  I  sigh  '  Awake  ! 
Wake,  Endymion,  wake  and  see 
All  things  grow  bright  for  the  love  of  me, 
With  a  love  that  grows  gentle  for  thy  sweet 

sake! 
Endymion,  Endymion ! 


SELENE    THE   MOON.— IRIS    THE  RAINBOW. 


Awaken,  awaken  ! ' 

And  my  glory  grows  paler,  the  deep  woods 
groan, 

And  the  waves  intone, 
Ay,  all  things  whereon  my  glory  is  shaken 

Murmur  '  Endymion  ! ' 


Ai  !    The  black  earth  brightens,   the  Sea 

creeps  near 
When  I  swim  from  the  sunset's  shadowy 

portal ; 

But  he  will  not  see,  and  he  will  not  hear, 
Though  to  hear  and  see  were  to  be  im- 
mortal : 
Pale  as  a  star  and  cold  as  a  stone, 

Dim  as  my  ghost  in  a  sleeping  lake, 
In  an  icy  vision  he  lieth  alone, 

And  I  sigh  '  Awake  ! 
Wake,  Endymion,  wake  and  be 
Divine,  divine,  for  the  love  of  me  ! ' 
And  my  odorous  breath  on  his  lids  I  shake  : 
'  Endymion,  Endymion ! 
Awaken,  awaken  ! ' 
But  Zeus  sitteth  cold  on  his  cloud-shrouded 

throne 

And  heareth  my  moan, 
And  his  stern  lips  form  not  the  hope-forsaken 
Name  of  Endymion. 

VIII. 

IRIS  THE   RAINBOW, 
i. 

'MiD  the  cloud  enshrouded  haze 

Of  Olumpos  I  arise, 
With  the  full  and  rainy  gaze 

Of  Apollo  in  mine  eyes  ; 
But  I  shade  my  dazzled  glance 

With  my  dripping  pinions  white 
Where  the  sunlight  sparkles  dance 

In  a  many- tinctured  light : 
My  foot  upon  the  woof 

Of  a  fleecy  cloudlet  small, 
I  glimmer  thro'  the  roof 

Of  the  paven  banquet-hall, 
And  a  soft  pink  radiance  dips 

Thro'  the  floating  mists  divine, 
Touching  eyes  and  cheeks  and  lips 

Of  the  mild-eyed  gods  supine, 
And  the  growing  glory  rolls 

Round  their  foreheads,  while  I  stain, 


With  a  blush  like  wine,  the  bowls 
Of  transparent  porcelain  : 

Till  the  whole  calm  place  has  caught 
A  deep  gleam  of  rosy  fire — 

When  I  darken  to  the  thought 
In  the  eyes  of  Zeus  the  Sire. 


Then  Zeus,  arising,  stoops 

O'er  the  ledges  of  the  skies, 
Looking  downward,  thro'  the  loops 

Of  the  starry  tapestries, 
On  the  evident  dark  plain 

Speck'd  with  wood  and  hill  and  stream, 
On  the  wrinkled  tawny  main 

Where  the  ships,  like  snowflakes,  gleam 
And  with  finger  without  swerve, 

Swiftly  lifted,  swiftly  whirl'd, 
He  draws  a  magic  curve 

O'er  the  dark  low-lying  world  ; 
When  with  waving  wings  display'd, 

On  the  Sun -god's  threshold  bright 
I  upleap,  and  seem  to  fade 

In  a  flash  of  golden'light ; 
But  I  plunge  thro'  vapours  dim 

To  the  dark  low-lying  land, 
And  I  tremble,  float,  and  swim, 

On  the  strange  curve  of  the  Hand  : 
From  my  wings,  that  drip,  drip,  drip, 

With  cool  rains,  shoot  jets  of  fire, 
As  across  green  capes  I  slip 

With  the  thought  of  Zeus  the  Sire. 


Thence,  with  drooping  wings  bedew' d, 

Folded  close  about  my  form, 
I  alight  with  feet  unview'd 

On  the  ledges  of  the  storm  ; 
For  a  moment,  cloud-enroll' d, 

Mid  the  murm'rous  rain  I  stand, 
And  with  meteor  eyes  behold 

Vapoury  ocean,  misty  land  ; 
Till  the  thought  of  Zeus  outsprings 

From  my  ripe  mouth  with  a  sigh, 
And  unto  my  lips  it  clings 

Like  a  shining  butterfly  ; 
When  I  brighten,  gleam,  and  glow 

And  my  glittering  wings  unfurl, 
And  the  melting  colours  flow 

To  my  foot  of  dusky  pearl ; 
And  the  ocean  mile  on  mile 

Gleams  thro'  capes  and  straits  and  bays, 


THE   UNDERTONES. 


And  the  vales  and  mountains  smile, 
And  the  leaves  are  wet  with  rays, — 

While  I  wave  the  humid  Bow 
Of  my  wings  with  flash  of  fire, 

And  the  Tempest,  crouch' d  below, 
Knows  the  thought  of  Zeus  the  Sire. 


IX. 
ORPHEUS  THE   MUSICIAN. 

I  SAT  of  old  beside  a  stream  new-born 
From  loamy  loins  of  mountains  cold, 

And  it  was  garrulous  of  dreams  forlorn 
And  visions  old : 

Wherefore  the  legends  of  the  woods  and  caves 
With  that  faint  melody  were  blended  ; 

And  as  the  stream  slid  down  to  ocean-waves, 
I  comprehended. 

Into  a  dreary  silence  dim  and  deep 
I  sank  with  drowsy  sighs  and  nods  : 

Then  sang — my  blue  eyes  dark  and  wise 

from  sleep — 
The  birth  of  gods.— 

A  gleaming  shoulder  cut  the  stream,  andlo  ! 

I  saw  the  glistening  Naiad  rise : 
She  floated,  like  a  lily  white  as  snow, 

With  half-closed  eyes. 

And  suddenly,  thronging  the  boughs  around, 
Came  forest  faces  strange  and  glad, 

That  droopt  moist  underlips  and  drank  the 

sound 
Divinely  sad. 

Far  down  the  glade,  where  heavy  shadows 
slept, 

Stole,  purple-stained  by  the  vine, 
Silenus, — thro'  whose  blood  my  music  crept 

Like  wondrous  wine  : 

Tiptoe,  like  one  who  fears  to  break  a  spell, 
He  came,  with  eyeballs  blank  as  glass — 

Not  drawing  breath  till,  at  my  feet,  he  fell 
Prone  on  the  grass. 

Then,  leaning  forked  chin  upon  his  hand, 
He  listen'd,  dead  to  tipsy  strife, 

And  lo !  his  face  grew  smooth  and  soft  and 

bland 
With  purer  life 


Goat-footed  fauns  and  satyrs  one  by  one, 
With  limbs  upon  the  greensward  thrown, 

Gather'd,  and  darken'd  round  me  in  the  sun, 
Like  shapes  of  stone  : 

Between  ths  sunset  and  the  green  hillside 
Quaint  pigmy  spirits  linger'd  bright, 

Till  heaven's  one  star  swam  dewy,  opening 

wide 
To  the  delight,— 

While  sunlight  redden'd,  dying,  and  below 
All  heark'd — like  shapes  upon  a  cup, 

By  skied  Here",  in  the  ambrosial  glow, 
Held  rosily  up. 

Then  twilight  duskly  gloam'd  upon  the  place, 
Full  of  sweet  odour  and  cool  shade, 

But  music  made  a  lamp  of  every  face 
In  the  forest-glade : 

Till  swiftly  swam,  in  showers  of  pearly  beams, 

Selene"  to  her  azure  arc, 
Scattering  silence,  light,  and  dewy  dreams 

On  eyelids  dark. 


- 


The  music  sadden'd,  and  the  greenw 

stirr'd, 

The  moonlight  clothed  us  in  its  veil, 
As  stooping  down  the  dove-eyed  goddess 

heard, 
Smiled,  and  grew  pale : 

For  as  they  listen'd,  satyrs,  nymphs,  and 
fauns 

Conceived  their  immortality — 
Yea,  the  weird  spirits  of  the  woods  and  lawns, 

Gross,  vile,  to  see — 

Whence  her  pure  light  disturb'd  them,  and 
they  strove 

To  shake  away  the  sweet  strange  charm  ; 
But  the  light  brighten'd,  shaken  from  above 

With  pearly  arm. 

They  could  not  fly,  they  could  not  cry  nor 
speak, 

It  held  them  like  a  hand  of  strength, — 
They  hid  their  faces,  wild,  abash'd  and  weak, 

And  writhed  full  length. 

The  Naiad  lifted  up  her  dewy  chin, 
And  knew,  and  saw  the  light  with  love, 

Made  peaceful  by  a  purity  akin 
To  hers  above, 


ORPHEUS   THE  MUSICTAN. 


And  countless  beauteous  spirits  of  the  shade 
Knew  their  own  souls  and  felt  no  fear  ; 

While  Echo,  nestling  in  her  thyme-cave, 

made 
An  answer  clear. 

Till,  when  I  ceased  to  sing,  the  satyr-crew 
Rush'd  back  to  riot  and  carouse  ; 

Self-fearful  faces  blushingly  withdrew 
Into  leafy  boughs  ; 

Lastly,  Silenus  to  his  knees  upcrept, 
Rubb'd  eyelids  swollen  like  the  vine, 

Stared  blankly  round  him,  vow'd  that  he  had 

slept, 
And  bawl'd  for  wine. 


X. 

POLYPHEME'S   PASSION. 

Ho,  Silenus  ! — no  one  here  ! 
The  kitchen  empty,  the  flocks  in  stalls, 
The  red  fire  flickering  over  the  walls, 
And — a  young  kid  spitted — dainty  cheer  ! 
Ho,  Silenus  ! — tipsy  old  reveller, 
Soft  -  zone  -  unloosener,     bright  -  hair  -  dis- 

heveller, 
Where  are  you  hiding,  you  tipsy  old  hound 

you, 
With  your  beard  of  a  goat  and  your  eyes  of 

a  lamb  ? 

SILENUS. 

Ho,  Cyclops ! 

POLYPHEME. 

He  mocks  me!  Where  are  you,  confound  you? 

SILENUS. 

Patience,  sweet  master,  here  I  am  ! — 

POLYPHEME. 

Rise  !  or  with  my  great  fist  I'll  put  an  end 

to  thee ; 
The  dregs  of  my  great  flagon  have  been 

warming  thee 
Thou'rt  drunk,  sow-ears.     I  find  there's  no 

reforming  thee, 
Tho'  six  round  moons  I've  tried  to  be  a 

friend  to  thee. 

Once  more  divinely  warming  those  old  veins, 
Chirping  like  grasshoppers  at  every  pore, 


Foaming  as  warm  as  milk  among  thy  brains. 
Gushing  like  sunshine  in  thine  heart's  dry 

core, 

Runs  the  pink  nectar  of  my  vines.    It  stains, 
Flowing  from  that  bald  head,  this  grassy 

floor — 
Too  sweet  for  earth  to  drink,  unmeet  for 

thee, 
Fit  only  to  be  quaffed  by  gods  like  me  ! 


Cyclops ! 


SILENUS. 


POLYPHEME. 


Jump  up,  then,  quickly.     Nay,  no  more. 
Follow  me  to  this  rocky  eminence, 
Cool-cushion'd  with  the  yellow  moss,  from 

whence 

We  can  at  ease  behold 
The  cloud-stain'd  greenness  of  the  ocean 

sleek, 
Rounding  its  glassy  waves  into  the  creek, 

Speckled  with  sparkling  jewels  manifold, 
And,  far  away,  one  melting  patch  of  gold. 
Now,   sit ! — Nay,   nearer,    higher — here, 

above 
My    shoulder.      Turn    thy  face  to   mine, 

Silenus ! 
Fear  not :— being  fill'd  with  the  sweet  milk 

of  Venus, 

Thou'rt  a  fit  counsellor  for  one  in  love  ; 
And,  as  I'm  in  a  talking  humour,  why — 
Suppose  we  chat  a  little  at  our  leisure. 


With  pleasure 
The  subject? 


SILENUS. 


POLYPHEME. 


One  alone  beneath  the  sky, 
Old  man,  is  worthy  of  the  conversation 
And  serious  consideration 

Of  such  a  god  as  I ! 
Now,  guess  the  name  of  that  sweet  thing  ? 

SILENUS. 

With  ease. 

Bacchus,  the  god  to  whom  these  aged  knees 
Bend  gloriously  impotent  so  often, 
And  in  whose  luscious  pool 
I  dip  hot  mouth  and  eyes,  and  soak  and 

soften 
The  yoke  of  thy  strong  rule. 


44 


THE    UNDERTONES. 


- 


POLYPHEME. 

A  thing  a  thousand  times  more  beautiful ! 

SILENUS. 

I  know  no  thing  more  beautiful  than  he 
When,  dripping  odours  cool, 

Deep-purpled,  like  a honey-bosom'd  flower 
For  which  the  red  mouth  buzzes  like  a  bee, 
He  bursts  from  thy  deep  caverns  gushingly, 

And  throws  his  pleasure  round  him  in  a 

shower, 

And  sparkles,  sparkles;  like  the  eyes  that  see, 
In  sunshine,  murmuring  for  very  glee 

And  bursting  beaded  bubbles  until  sour 
Lips  tremble  into  moist  anticipation 
Of  his  rich  exultation  ! 

POLYPHEME. 

Has  little  Bacchus,  whom  ye  praise  so,  power 
To  unnerve  these  mighty  limbs,  make  this 

one  Eye 

Rain  inpotent  tears,  hurl  this  gigantic  bulk 
Down  on  its  stubborn  knees — nay,  make  me 

skulk 
And  fume  and  fret,  and  simper  oaths, 

and  sigh, 

Like  tiny  mortal  milking-maids  who  sulk 
In    dairies,    frothing    yellow    like    their 

cream  ? 
Could  Bacchus,  once  let  loose  to  fight  and 

fly, 

Do  all  these  things  to  sinewy  Polypheme? 


Assuredly ! 


SILENUS. 


POLYPHEME. 


By  this  right  hand,  you  lie  ! — 
I  am  a  god,  great-statured,  strong,  and  born 

Out  of  Poseidon's  nervy  loins  divine  ! 
I  laugh  the  wrath  of  Zeus  himself  to  scorn  ; 
And  when  I  rise  erect  on  Aetna's  horn 
My  shadow  on  the  faint  sea-hyaline 
Falls  like  a  cloud  wherein  the  winds  drop 

still 
And  white-wing'd  ships  move  slowly  without 

will. 

Shall  bulk  so  wondrous  and  so  grand  as  mine 
Yield  to  the  miserable  god  of  wine  ? 


Certainly  not. 


POLYPHEME. 

Never  ! — by  Pallas'  spear, 
At  whose  sharp  touch  the  plump  god  leaps 

and  flies, 
While  startled  Revel  shrieks  with  haggard 

eyes  ! 
Never,  by  Hermes,   whom  the  drunken 

fear, 
But  whose  quick  fingers  pilfer  not  the 

SILENUS. 

Whom  shall  we  praise,  O  Cyclops  ? 

POLYPHEME. 

Thou  shalt  hear — 
Tell  me,  didst  thou  ever  see  a, — 
Ever  see  a,  ever  hear  a, — 
Either  far  away  or  near,  a — 
Nymph  so  sweet  as  Galatea  ? 


Never ! 


SILENUS. 


POLYPHEME. 


'Tis  false,  old  man  !  she  is  not  fair 

Those  weeds  that  under  ocean  rot  at  ease 

Into  dark  dreams  o'  the  flowery  earth,  and 

there 
Put  purples  in  the  sea-nymph's  sunny  hair 

Are  fairer  :  she  is  changeable  as  these. 
She  is  as  wanton  as  the  perfumed  fays 
That  dimple  on  the  windless  sea  and  dally, 
Musically, 

With  the  puff 'd  sails  of  ships  becalm'd  fo>- 
days. 

SILENUS. 

True,  Cyclops,  she  is  fickle  ;  and  by  her 
Whose  amorous  breath  blew  the  Greek  host 

to  Troy, 
I  have  seen  fairer  ! 

POLYPHEME. 

Dotard  !  Driveller  ! 
Not  her  the  false  Idalian  shepherd-boy, 
With  silken  string,  like  a  tame  heifer, 

led— 

Nay,  not  lush  Aphrodite,  whose  blue  eyne, 
Pink-lidded,  smiled  on  their  unhallow'd 

bed- 
Is  half  so  fair,  so  precious,  so  divine, 
As  Galatea ! 

SILENUS. 

Exactly  what  I  said. 


POLYPHEMUS  PASSION. 


45 


POLYPHEME. 

Her  voice  hath  gentle  sweetness,  borrowed 

From  soft  tide-lispings  on  the  pebbly  sand, 
Tis  like  the  brooding  doves  in  junipers  ; 

White  as  a  shell  of  ocean  is  her  hand, 
Wherein,  with  rosy  light,  the  pink  blood 

stirs  ! 

Her  hair  excels  the  fruitage  of  the  beech 
Wherein  the  sun  runs  liquid  gleam  on  gleam ; 
Her  breasts  are  like  two  foaming  bowls  of 

cream, 
A  red  straw-berry  in  the  midst  of  each  ! 

And  the  soft  gold-down  on  her  silken  chin 
Is  like  the  under  side  of  a  ripe  peach — 

A  dimple  dipping  honeyly  therein  1 


Her  eyes — 


SILENUS. 


POLYPHEME. 


Profane  them  not ! — For  their  sweet  fire  is 
Wondrous  and  various  as  the  Bow 
Drawn  over  rainy  ledges  dripping  low 
By  many-colour' d  Iris — 
From  whose  bright  end,  plunged  the  dark 

waters  under, 

Woven  with  the  tapestries  of  her  sea-cave, 
And  dying  hue  by  hue  on  the  green  wave, 
They  may  have  drunk  a  portion  of  their 

wonder. 

But  oh,  what  tongue  can  tell 
Their  glory  inexpressible  ? 
You  seem  to  see  the  music  of  the  ocean 
Folded  within  them,  as  within  a  shell, 
And  gently  stirring  with  a  violet  motion, 
Until  it  drops  unto  the  lips,  and  there 
Flutters  in-perfumed  accents  on  the  air  ; 
Nor  this  alone.     They  change  as  the  sea 

changes, 

In  hues  as  various  as  the  ringdove's  dyes  : 
Whatsoever  sweet  and  strange  is 
.Flashes  across  them  with  a  quick  surprise. 
Now,  in  their  troubled  orbs  rise  multiform 
Wild  pictures  of  sky-tempest  and  sea-storm  ; 
And  her  wild  eyes  droop  brightly  on  her  breast 
Till  it  is  troubled  like  a  thing  distrest ; 
But  in  their  softest  mood 
You  watch  the  pale  soul  tremulously  brood 
On  those  bright  orbs  whose  fire  the  dark 

sea  cools, 

And  there  it  trembles,  as  the  moonlight  flows 
On  seas  just  stirr'd  by  their  own  deep  repose, 
And  throbbing,  throbbing,  into  silver  pools  ! 


SILENUS. 

O  eloquent  Cyclops,  pause,  and  breathe  a 

space ! — 
Few  eyes  save  thine,  few  eyes  of  earth,  have 

plainly 

Seen  this  immortal  Galatea's  face  ; 
For  she  thou  lovest  is  of  that  fair  race 
Whom  mortal  vision  dreams  of,  but  seeks 
vainly — 

For  they  comb  and  they  comb 

Their  yellow  locks, 
Under  the  foam, 

Among  weedy  rocks  1 
And  they  sing  unseen 
In  their  sea-caves  green, 
And  gaze  at  the  white  sun  overhead 
Whose  pale  ray  saddens  their  dripping 

curls, 

Or  the  moon  that  glimm'ring  in  ocean's 
bed 

Leaves  her  light  for  ever  in  pools  of 
pearls ! 

POLYPHEME. 

Chirrup  not,  wine-sponge ! — Am   not  I  a 

god? 

Cannot  this  eye  peer  to  Olumpos'  helm? 
Does  not  the  great  sea,  trembling  at  my  nod, 
Hush  itself  humbly  around  this  my  realm  ? 

SILENUS. 

It  does,  O  Cyclops  ! 

POLYPHEME. 

Save,  of  course,  when  I 
Hurl  rocks  and  trees  down  on  the  shudder- 
ing ships, 

And,  while  I  loom  above  the  waves,  my  lips 
Roar  terrible  defiance  at  the  sky. 


Precisely. 

POLYPHEME. 

Ask  not,  then,  the  when  and  how  ; 
But  turn  thine  ancient  gaze 
On  the  broad  wonder  of  my  brow, 
Thence  drop  it,  in  a  natural  amaze, 
Down  the  steep  mountain  to  my  sinewy  feet, 
Round  which  the  lambs,  as  small  as  .snow- 
flakes,  bleat  ; 
Now,  tell  me — am  I  fair  ? 


THE    UNDERTONES. 


SILENUS. 


Most  fair ! 


POLYPHEME. 

Thy  fears 
Lie  to  my  strength  a  hollow  lie,  Silenus  ! 

SILENUS. 

By  all  the  love  that  there  exists  between  us, 
By  doves  that  perch   on    Bacchus'   vine- 

wreath'd  ears, 
I  swear  thou  art  most  beautiful ! 

POLYPHEME. 

Again  : 
Have  those  blurr'd  eyeballs  noticed  that  of 

late 
Mine  air  has  grown  more  solemn,   more 

sedate, 

More  bountiful  to  those  I  hold  in  chain 
To  watch  my  flocks,  and  more  compassion- 
ate ; 

As  if  I  struggled  underneath  the  weight 
Of  some  indefinite  pain  ? 
That  I  have  learn'd  to  tremble  and  to  blush, 
To  droop  this  eyelid  modestly,  to  flush 
All  over  at  the  tiniest  whispering  sound, 
To  pick  small  dainty  steps  upon  the  ground 
As  if  I  saw  and  seeing  fear'd  to  crush 
Some  crawling  insect  or  the  crimson-crown'd 
Small  daisy-flower  that,  whensoe'er  I  pass, 
Shuts  up  its  little  leaves  upon  the  grass 
And  thinks  the  shadowy  eve  has  stolen  down! 


Cyclops  ! — These  things  I  saw,  but  fear'd  to 

question ; 

Nay,  with  a  blush  I  own  it — do  not  frown ! — 
I  set  thy  trouble  down  as  indigestion. 
For  neither  dainty  kids,  nor  lambs  stall- 
fed, 
Nor  sucking-swine  with   pippins   in    their 

teeth, 

Nor  ox-thighs  with  green  herbs  engarlanded, 
Nor  foamy  curds  wherein  hot  apples  seethe 
Nay,  not  the  parsley-flavour 'd  tongues  of 

sheep, 

'Could  tempt  o"  late  thy  dainty  appetite  ; 
But  lying  on  the  mountain  out  of  sight 
Of  melancholy  thou  hast  drunken  deep  ; 
While  down  among  the  yellow  pastures 
moaning 


With  lambs  new-yean'd,  where    thy 

streamlets  run, 
We  saw  thee  loom  above  us,  mighty  one  ! 
And  heard  thee,  like  the  monstrous 

intoning, 
Melodiously  groaning ! 

POLYPHEME. 

Ay  me  !  ay  me  ! 

SILENUS. 

Be  calm,  sweet  Polypheme 
The  eagle  poised  o'er  yonder  cropping 
Flew  scared,  at  that  big  cry. 


POLYPHEME. 

Ay  me  !  I 

Lost,  swallow'd  up,  absorbed  into  a  dream 
Thro'  the  swift  current  of  my  frame  gigantic 
Eddies  a  frantic 

Consuming  fire.     I  am  not  what  I  seem. 
For  Galatea  I  refuse  all  food, 
For  Galatea  I  grow  weak  and  wild 
And  petulant-featured  as  a  sickly  child  ; 
For  Galatea  I,  in  desperate  mood, 
Seek  out  green  places  in  this  solitude, 
And  close  my  eyes,  and  think  I  am  a 
Tingling,  tingling,  lightly 
Against  the  snow-heap'd  bosom  swe 
whitely ! 

SILENUS. 

One  should  not  break  his  heart  for  any  girl. 

POLYPHEME. 

Ay  me  !  I  close  my  eyes  in  a  sweet  woe, 
And  dream  that  I  am  little,  fair,  and  sweet, 
For  a  small  goddess's  embraces  meet, 
Nor  huge,  nor  rough.    It  was  not  always  so  \ 
Of  old,  Silenus,  this  great  awful  Me 
Was  swoll'n  with  glory  at  the  contemplation) 
Of  its  enormity  in  yonder  sea  ; 
I  revell'd  in  the  roar  and  consternation, 
When,  grasping  rocks  with  frantic  acclama- 
tion, 
Round  this  frowning,  ^Etna-crowning  head. 

I  whirl' d  them, 
Tremendously,    stupendously,    and  hurl'd« 

them 

On  the  passing  fleets  below  ; 
And  from  under  came  the  thunder  of  vessels 

crush'd  asunder, 

And  the  shriek,   faint  and  weak,   of  the 
mortals  in  their  wonder, 


POLYPHEMKS  PASSION. 


And  the  sea  rolled  underneath,  and  the  winds 

began  to  blow, 
And  above  the  desolation,  drunk  with  rage, 

I  took  my  station, 
With  my  waving  arms  expanded  and  my 

crimson  eye  aglow, 
And  to  earth's  reverberation, 
Roar'd  '  Ho  !  ho  !  ho  ! ' 

SILENUS. 

Cyclops  !  sweet  Cyclops  ! — 

POLYPHEME. 

Fear  not ! 

I  am  as  weak  as  the  eagle's  callow  young  ; 
Yet  listen,  mild  old  man,  and  interfere  not. 
One  summer  day,  when  earth  and  heaven 

rung 
With  thunders,  and  the  hissing  lightning 

stung 

With  forked  meteor  tongue 
The    green    smooth    living    ocean    till    it 

shriek1  d — 

I  stood  aloft  on  ./Etna's  horn  and  wreak'd 
My  cruel  humour  with  a  monstrous  glee  : 
When  lo  !  from  out  the  rainy  void  did  flit 
Bright  Iris,  and  with  tremulous  foot  alit 
On  this  my  mountain,  touching  even  me 
With  her  faint  glory :  for  a  moment,  she 
Paused  shudd'ring  high  above  me  :   then 

with  fleet 
Footstep  slid  downward  till  she  reach'd  my 

feet; 
And    there,    with    many-tinctured    wings 

serene, 

She  waved  the  seas  to  silence,  and,  beguiled 
By   her   mild    message,    the   dark    ocean 

smiled — 

A  palpitating  lapse  of  oily  green, 
With  silvery  glimmers  here  and  there  be- 
tween 
The  shadows  of  the  clouds  that,  dewy  and 

mild, 
Parted  and  flutter' d  : — when,  with  radiant 

head 
Plunging  among  the  mountain  mists,  she 

fled. 

But,  as  the  vapours  fleam' d  away,  behold  ! 
I  saw  far  down  upon  the  brown  sea-strand 
A  nymph  who  held  aloft  in  pearly  hand 
A  white- tooth' d  comb,  and  comb'd  her  locks 

of  gold 
Over  a  dank  and  ship-wreck' d  sailor-lad, — 


On  whose  sad  eyelids  a  faint  radiance  lay, 
Robb'd  from  some  little  homestead  far  away, 
Some  silent  hearth  that  wearily  would  wait, 
For  that  faint  smile  which  left  it  desolate, 
And  hush  itself  and  watch  and  yearn  and 

pray. 

Oh  !  tenderly  she  comb'd  her  locks  of  gold, 
Over  that  gently-sleeping  sailor-lad, 
Stretch'd  'mid  the  purple  dulse  and  rock- 
weed  cold  ; 
And  all  the  while  she  sang  a  ditty  sad, 
To  deep  division  of  the  wave  that  roll'd 
Up  to  her  feet,  like  a  huge  snake  that  springs 
At  two  bright  butterflies  with  golden  wings  : 

Marinere,  O  Marinere, 

Waken,  waken ! 

Sleep-o'er  taken, 
Look  upon  me,  with  no  fear, 
Look,  and  see,  and  hear  : 
Underneath  the  white-tooth'd  waves, 
Sleep  your  comrades  in  their  caves  ; 
Coral  grottoes  are  their  bed, 
Purple  plants  stir  overhead, 
All  around  black  weeds  are  twined, 
Frozen  still  without  a  wind  ; 
And  the  sea-nymphs  in  distress 
Pluck  dark  flowers  all  odourless, 
Growing  deep  in  caverns  clear, 
Gently  to  bestrew  their  bier. 
Under  the  sea 
They  sleep — ah  me ! 
They  have  slept  for  many  a  year. 

Marinere,  O  Marinere, 
Wake  not,  wake  not, 
Slumber  break  not, 
Close  your  eyelids  with  no  fear,. 
Do  not  see,  nor  hear  ! 
Far  above  the  silence  deep, 
Where  your  gentle  comrades  sleep;. 
Rolls  the  sea  and  foams  the  storm, 
Horrors  thicken,  terrors/ swarm, 
And  the  sea-nymphs,  lightning-led, 
Flash  about  white-garmented  ; 
But  below  the  Storm-god's  frown, 
Sleep  the  shipwreck'd  fathoms  down—' 
Ocean-flowers  are  on  the  bier, 
Foam-bells  hang  in  every  ear ! 

Under  the  sea 

They  sleep — ah  me  ! 

They  shall  sleep  for  many  a  year. 


THE    UNDERTONES. 


SILENUS. 

That  was  the  song  she  sang  ? 

POLYPHEME. 

It  was.     But  ill 
Those  tender  accents  fill 
This  rocky  breast,  whose  distant  roar 
Frightens  those  white  waves  seaward  from 

the  shore. 

For  they  trembled,  tinkling,  twining, 
For  melodious  combining, 
While  her  yellow  locks  fell  shining 

To  her  knees, 

While  the  Storm,  with  bright  eyes  glistening, 
Thro"  its  cloud-veil  looking  at  her, 
Hung  breathlessly  and  listening 

On  the  seas  : 

And  in  the  sun  she  sat  her, 
While  her  voice  went  pitter-patter, 
Pitter-patter,  like  the  clatter 

Of  bright  rain  on  boughs  of  trees  1 
Then  ho  !  with  rhy  great  stride, 
Down  the  steep  mountain  side, 
I  sprang  unto  her,  with  mine  arms  extended! 
Her  bright  locks  gleam"  d  afraid, 
Like  a  sunbeam  trapt  in  shade, 
In  my  deep  shadow,  and  the  music  ended  : 
And  she  rose  erect  to  fly, 
Panting,  moaning,  and  her  cry 
Met  the  lifted  cry  of  Ocean,  and  they  blended ! 
While  earth  reel'd  under, 

Downward  I  bore, 
With  step  of  thunder, 

On  to  the  shore  ; 
And  in  shrieking  amaze, 

With  eyes  fasten'd  in  fear — 
Like  a  star's  firm  gaze 

When  a  cloud  draws  near — 
On  the  horror  that  came 
With  an  eye  of  flame, 
She  leapt  to  the  water, 
All  woebegone  ; 
And  her  bright  locks  shone 
And  tript  and  distraught  her, 
But  the  water  caught  her 

And  push'd  her  on  ! 
From  billow  to  billow, 
With  wild  locks  streaming 

And  tangling  oft ; 
From  billow  to  billow, 
Dark-green,  or  gleaming 
Like  doves'  wings  soft, 


From  billow  to  billow, 
Panting  and  screaming, 
With  white  hands  beaming 

And  waving  aloft  ! 
Then,  coming  hideous 

On  to  the  tide, 
I  spurn'd  the  perfidious 

Foam  aside, 
And  follow' d  her,  dashing 

Thro'  storm  sublime, 
Flashing,  crashing, 
Splashing-splashing 

On  the  seaweed's  slippery  slime  ! 
The  billows  clomb  up, 
With  flash  of  foam  up, 

My  loins  and  thighs  ; 
Till  they  gleam'd  and  fleam'd, 

With  clangor  and  anger, 
And  around  me  upstream'd 

W.th  their  wild  white  eyes  ! 
Till  panting,  choking, 
Dripping  and  soaking, 
With  nostrils  smoking, 
I  halted,  spitting, 

Spurting,  chin-deep, 
And  saw  her  sitting 
Where  gulls  were  flitting 

Far  out  on  the  deep  ; 
And  all  around  her  with  gentle  motion 
One  smooth  soft  part  of  the  murmurous 
ocean 

Had  gone  to  sleep  ! 
Then  waving  her  hands, 

And  shaking  her  locks, 
To  the  ocean  sands, 

To  the  purple  rocks 
Under  the  foam, 

To  the  sea-caves  brown, 
She  sank  to  her  home, 

Down  !  down  !  down  !  down  1 
And  the  sea  grew  black 
In  her  shining  track, 

.  •  nd  the  waters  green 
Darken' d  afar  ; 

And  the  one  thing  seen 
Was  the  steadfast  star 
Of  my  round  Eye  red, 

Rolling  immense 

With  a  pain  intense 
In  my  rocky  head, 
Mid  the  white  foam  wreathing 
Around  wind-led, 
And  the  great  sea  seething 


POLYPHEMUS  PASSION. 


49 


Down  to  deep  breathing, 

Like  a  monster  panting,  on  its  sandy  bed  ! 

SILENUS. 

Most  musical  Cyclops ! 

POLYPHEME. 

Hush  ! — Unto  the  beach 
I  wearily  strode,  with  great  head  bow' d,  and 

dragg'd 

Foot-echoes  after  me  ;  and  with  no  speech, 
On  yondershore,  weedy  andwetandcragg'd, 
I  stood,  and  in  an  agony  of  pain 
Look'd  out  with  widening  eyeball  on  the 

main. 

Lo  !  far  away  a  white  wind  glided  dim 
O'er  the  cloud-cover'dbright'ning  ocean-rim, 
And  violet  shadows  here  and  there  were 

trail' d 

Over  the  waters  :  then  behold  the  sun 
Flasht  pale  across  the  waste,  and  one  by  one, 
Like  sea-gulls  dripping   rain,   rose  ships 

white-sail'd. 

All  else  was  silence,  save  monotonous  moan 
Of  the  broad-chested  billows,  till  the  warm 
Light  kindled  all  things,  and  I  loomed 

alone — 

The  one  huge  cloud  remaining  of  the  storm ; 
And  in  the  awfulness  of  that  strange  hour 
A  change  came  over  my  big  throbbing  breast, 
And  the  soft  picture  of  the  calm  had  power 
To  move  my  mountainous  bulk  with  vague 

unrest  ! — 

SILENUS. 

Weep  not,  O  Cyclops— lest  thy  tears  should 

roll 
Down  oceanward  and  brain  the    grazing 

sheep  ! 

POLYPHEME. 

Ay  me,  ay  me,  the  passion  in  my  soul ! 
Ay  me,  her  glory  haunts  me,  and  I  weep  ! — 
•  O,  I  would  give  away  the  world  to  be 
As  soft,  as  sweet,  as  fleecy-limb'd  as  she, 
As  tiny  and  as  tender  and  as  white 
As  her  mild  loveliness  ! 
With  two  soft  eyes  such  as  mere  men  possess, 
Two  pretty  little  dewy  eyes,  that  might 
Interpret  me  aright ! 

SILENUS. 

Amazement ! — Polypheme,  whom  vast  Pos- 
eidon 
Spawn' d  upon  Thoosa  jn  the  salted  brine, 


Thou  who  canst  strangle  fleets,  and  sit  astride 

on 

^Etna  and  roar  thine  origin  divine  ! 
Wrong  not  thyself,  thy  beauty,  and  thy  sire  ! 
See !  where  thy  mighty  shadow  stretches 

wide 

Down  the  steep  mountain  side, 
And  see !  that  eyeball  of  immortal  fire  1 
Had  wanton  Helen,  Paris'  love-sick  toy, 
Beheld  thee,  Polypheme, 
Hill-haunting  Echo  had  not  found  a  theme 
In  ruin  and  the  ten  years'  war  of  Troy  1 


And  is  it  so  ? 


By-by- 


POLYPHEME. 


SILENUS. 


By  Ganymede  bright  eyed, 


POLYPHEME. 


Enough  —  let  us  return.     I  stood, 
When  she  had  flown,  in  meditative  mood  ; 
Then,  raising  up  my  resinous  hands,  I  cried: 
'  O  thou  from  whose  huge  loins  I  darkling 

came, 

King  of  all  ocean  and  its  wondrous  races, 
Return,  return,  the  nymph  to  my  embraces, 
Or,  thro'  thy  lips  ooze-dripping,  name  her 

name  !  ' 

And  o'er  the  sands  did  a  low  murmur  creep, 
Whispering  '  Galatea  ;  '  and,  deep-pain'd, 
I  vaguely  knew,  like  one  who  dreams  in 

sleep, 

She  was  a  goddess  of  the  sacred  deep, 
Not  to  be  lightly  woo'd  or  roughly  gain'd. 

SILENUS. 

0  pitiful  !  and  you  — 

POLYPHEME. 

In  the  dim  birth 
Of  the  strange  love  that  stirs  my  hid  blood's 

fountains, 
As  unborn  earthquakes  trouble  springs  in 

mountains, 

1  look'd  abroad  upon  the  fair  green  earth  ; 
And  lo,  all  things  that  lived,  all  things  that 

stirr'd, 

Unto  the  very  daisy  closing  up 
In  my  great  shade  its  crimson-tipped  cup, 
And  the  small  lambs,  and  every  little  bird 
Seem'd  to  abhor  and  dread,  avoid  and  fear 

me  ; 


THE    UNDERTONES. 


And  in  an  agony  of  hate  for  all, 
I  cried  '  How  can  a  thing  so  sweet,  so  small, 
So  gentle,  love  me — or  be  happy  near  me  ? ' 
Whereon  I  sadly  clomb  the  cliffs  and  made 
A  looking-glass  of  yonder  ocean,  where 
Startled  by  my  long  shade 
The  silver-bellied  fishes  rose  afraid  ; 
But  with  a  lover's  hand  I  smooth'd  my  hair 
To  sleekness,  parting  it  with  care, 
And  husht  the  rugged  sorrow  of  my  brow- 
Then,  stooping  softly  o'er  the  dimpled  mirror, 
I  shaped  my  face  to  a  sweet  smile— as  now  ! 

SILENUS. 

O  agony  !  help,  help,  ye  gods  !    O  terror  ! 
Hide  me ! 

POLYPHEME. 

What  ails  thee?    Hal 

SILENUS. 

O  Ocean's  child- 
Cyclops  !     My  heart,  with  admiration  rent, 
Fainted  and  cried  with  its  deep  ravishment 
Because  you  look'd  so  beauteous  when  you 
smiled  ! 

POLYPHEME. 

Thou  liest ! — and  (ay  me)  you  shrunk  in  fear 
As  silly  younglings    shrink   at  something 

hateful ; 

Yet  tremble  not : — to  a  lorn  lover's  ear, 
Ev'en  flattery  so  base  as  thine  is  grateful. 
Ay  me:  ay  me — I  am 
A  great  sad  mountain  in  whose  depths  doth 

roam 

My  small  soul,  wandering  like  a  gentle  lamb 
That  bleats  from  place  to  place  and  has  no 

home ; 

But  prison'd  among  rocks 
Can  just  behold  afar 
A  land  where  honey-flowing  rivers  are 
And  gentle  shepherds  withtheirgentle  flocks: 
For  even  so  my  timid  soul  looks  round 
On  beauteous  living  things — that  creep  and 

seem, 

To  this  vast  Eye,  like  insects  on  the  ground — 
From  whose  companionship  'tis  shut  and 

bound 
Within  this  mountain  of  a  Polypheme  ! 

SILENUS. 

Most  melancholy  Cyclops,  be  consoled  ! 


POLYPHEME. 

My  heart  is  like  those  blubbery  crimson  bl 

That  float  on  the  dank  tide  in  oozy  spots  ; 

It  is  as  mild  as  patient  flocks  in  fold. 

I  am  as  lonely  as  the  snowy  peak 

Of  Dardanos,  and,  like  an  eagle,  Love 

Stoops  o'er  me,  helpless,  from  its  eyrie  above, 

And  grasps  that  lamb,  my  Soul,  within  i:s 

beak. 

Nay,  on  the  margin  of  the  waters  where 
She  comes  and  goes  like  a  swift  gull,  I  sit 
Above  these  flocks,  and  rake  my  little  wit 
To  pipe  upon  the  misty  mountain  air 
Ditties  as  tender  as  a  shepherd  man, 
Perch'd  on  a  little  hillock,  half  asleep, 
Surrounded  by  his  silly  stainless  sheep, 
Pipes  with  mild  pleasure  and  no  definite  plan 
In  fields  Arcadian.  [He  sings. 

White  is  the  little  hand  of  Galatea, 
That  combs  her  yellow  locks  with  dainty 

care ; 

Bright  is  the  fluttering  hand  of  Galatea, 
When  tangled,  like  a  dove,  in  sunny 

hair. 
Sweet  is  Galatea — sweet  is  Galatea — 

Ay,  so  sweet  ! 
Complete  is  Galatea,  from  her  feathery 

fingers  fair 

To  her  small  white  mice  of  feet ! 
The  billows  huge  and  hoar  cease  to  rumble 

and  to  roar, 
When  the  white  hands  wave  above  them, 

like  doves  that  shine  and  soar, 
And,  as  gentle,  from  the  shore,  I  adore,  and 
implore  Galatea  ! 

Ho,  that  these  limbs  were  meet  for  Galatea 
With  soft  pink  kisses  sweetly  to  enfold  ! 
Ho,  had  I  two  small  eyes,  that  Galatea 
Might  there  my   gentle  gentle  heart 

behold  ! 
Dear  is  Galatea — dear  is  Galatea — 

Ay,  so  dear  ! 
No  peer  has  Galatea,  but  her  bosom  is  so 

cold 

And  her  eyes  so  full  of  fear  1 
When  the  great  seas  wildly  rise,  there  is 

terror  in  her  eyes, 
And  she  trembles  in  sweet  wonder,  like  a 

bird  that  storms  surprise,  — 
And  before  my  tender  cries,  and  my  sighs,, 
swiftly  flies  Galatea  | 


POLYPHEME'S  PASSION. 


Under  the  white  sea-storm  sits  Galatea, 
While  overhead  the  sea-birds  scream  in 

flocks, 

In  deep-green  darkness  sitteth  Galatea, 
Combing  out  sunshine  from  her  golden 

locks  ! 
Fair  sits  Galatea— fair  sits  Galatea — 

Ay,  so  fair  ! 
Ho,  there  sits  Galatea,  in  the  shade  of 

purple  rocks, 

Mid  the  fountain  of  her  hair  ! 
Ho,  would  I  were  the  waves,  on  whose  crest 

the  tempest  raves, 
So  might  I  still  the  tempest  that  my  raging 

bulk  outbraves, 

For  the  dark-green  stillness  laves,  and  en- 
slaves, and  encaves  Galatea  1 

SILENUS. 
Comfort,    O  Cyclops,  comfort !     There  is 

sure 

Some  remedy  for  such  a  wound  as  this  : 
Red  wine,  I  say  again  :  the  plump  God's 

kiss 
Is  sweeter  far  than  honey,  rich  and  pure. 

POLYPHEME. 

Alas,  not  he  whose  temples  Artemis 
Bound  with  weird  herbs  and  poison-snakes 

that  hiss 

But  sting  not — wise  Asclepios — could  cure  ! 
For  evermore,  Silenus,  when  my  brain 
Lies  in  a  dream  just  conscious  of  its  pain, 
And  my  full  heart  throbs  tenderly  and  rock- 

ingly, 

Far  out  upon  the  bosom  of  the  main 
She  flashes  up,   green-kirtled,  and  laughs 

mockingly. 

Thrice  has  her  smile  enticed  me  to  the  chin 
Thro1  the  great  waves  that  round  me  bite 

and  bark, 

And  gleam'd  away  and  left  me  in  the  dark. 
Alas,  that  I  must  woo  and  never  win  ! 
Alas,  that  I  am  foul  while  she  is  fair  ! 
Alas,  that  this  red  Eye,  my  only  one, 
Like  a  brown  lizard  looking  on  the  sun, 
Turns  green  in  her  bright  mist  of  yellow 

hair! 

SILENUS. 

Majestic  Cyclops  !     Heir  of  the  huge  Sea  ! 
God-like, — like  those  great  heavens  that 
oversheen  us  ! 


One-eyed,  like  the  bright  Day  !     Wilt  thou 

by  me, 
Thy  servant,  be  advised  ? 

POLYPHEME. 

Speak  on,  Sil^nus. 

SILENUS. 

Behold  !  --Beneath  the  many-tinctured  west 

hid, 

Fades  Phoibos  crimson-crested, 
And  the  faint  image  of  his  parting  light 
On  the  deep  Sea  broad-breasted 
Fades  glassily ;  while  down  the  mountain 

height 

Behind  us,  slides  the  purple  shadow'd  Night. 
Come  in  ! — and  from  your  cellar  iced  by 

springs 

Drag  forth  the  god  of  wine, 
And  listen  to  him  as  he  chirps  and  sings 
His  songs  delicious,  dulcet,  and  divine  : 
Throned  in  the  brain,  magnificently  wise, 
And  blowing  warmly  out  thro*  kindled  eyes 
All  vapours  vapid,  vague,  and  vain. 
Seek  the  god's  counsel,  Cyclops,  I  beseech 

thee  ; 

'Tis  he  alone,  if  once  his  magic  reach  thee, 
Can  cure  Love'5  panting  heat  or  shivering 

pain. 

POLYPHEME. 

He  cannot  make  me  fair  ! 

SILENUS. 

Phoo  !— He  will  teach  thee 
To  lift  thy  dreamy  gaze  from  the  soft  sod, 
And  rise  erect,  big-hearted,  self-reliant, 
On  ^Etna's  horn— with  leathern  lungs  de- 
fiant- 
No  minnow-hearted  grampus  of  a  god  ! 
And — then  in  the  quick  flush  and  exultation 
Of  that  proud  inspiration, 
Wine  in  his  nostrils,  Polypheme  will  be 
In  Polypheme's  own  estimation 
A  match  for  any  girl  on  land  or  sea. 
Then,  furiously,  gloriously  rash, 
Grasp  Opportunity,  that,  passing  by 
On  the  sheet-lightning  with  a  moment's  flash, 
Haunts  us  for  ever  with  its  meteor  eye  ; 
And— grasp  the  thing  thou  pantest  for  in 

vain, 
Ay,  hold  her  fast,  and  for  a  space  entreat 

her— 

But,  if  she  still  be  deaf  to  thy  sad  pain, 
Why,  hearken  to  the  mad  god  in  thy  brain, 
And  make  a  meal  of  trouble — that  is,  eat  her! 


THE    UNDERTONES. 


XI. 

PENELOPE. 

WHITHER,  Ulysses,  whitherdost  thouroam, 
Rolled  round  with  wind-led  waves  that  ren- 
der dark 

The  smoothly-spinning  circle  of  the  sea  ? 
Lo,  Troy  has  fallen,  fallen  like  a  tower, 
And  the  mild  sunshine  of  degenerate  days 
Sleeps  faintly  on  its  ruins.     One  by  one, 
Swift  as  the  sparkle  of  a  star,  the  ships 
Have  dipt  up  moistly  from  the  under-world, 
And  plumed  warriors,   standing   in   their 

prows, 

Stretching  out  arms  to  wives  and  little  ones 
That  crowd  with  seaward  faces  on  the  beach, 
Have  flung  their  armour  off  and  leapt  and 

swam 
Ere  yet  the  homeward  keels  could  graze  the 

sand. 
And    these — the  gaunt    survivors   of   thy 

peers — 

Have  landed,  shone  upon  by  those  they  love, 
And  faded  into  happy  happv  homes  ; 
While  I,  the  lonely  woman,  hugging  close 
The  comfort  of  thine  individual  fame, 
Still  wait  and  yearn  and  wish  towards  the 

sea ; 

And  all  the  air  is  hollow  of  my  joy : 
The  seasons  come  and  go,  the  hour-glass 

runs, 

The  day  and  night  come  punctual  as  of  old ; 
But  thy  deep  strength  is  in  the  solemn  dawn, 
And  thy  proud  step  is  in  the  plumed  noon, 
And  thy  grave  voice  is  in  the  whispering  eve  ; 
And  all  the  while,  amid  this  dream  of  thee, 
In  restless  resolution  oceanward, 
I  sit  and  ply  my  sedentary  task, 
And  fear  that  I  am  lonelier  than  I  know. 

Yea,  love,  I  am  alone  in  all  the  world, 
The  past  grows  dark  upon  me  where  I  wait, 
With  eyes  that  hunger  seaward  and  a  cheek 
Grown  like  the  sampler  coarse-complexioned. 
For  in  the  shadow  of  thy  coming  home 
I  sit  and  weave  a  weary  housewife's  web, 
Pale  as  the  silkworm  in  the  cone  ;  all  day 
I  sit  and  weave  this  weary  housewife's  web, 
And  in  the  night  with  fingers  swift  as  frost 
Unweave  the  weary  labour  of  the  day. 
Behold  how  I  am  mock'd  I— Suspicion 


Mumbles  my  name  between  his  toothl 

gums; 

And  while  I  ply  my  sedentary  task, 
They  come  to  me,  mere  men  of  hollow  clay, 
Gross-mouth'd  and  stain'd  with  wine  they 

come  to  me, 

And  whisper  odious  comfort,  and  upbraid 
The  love  that  follows  thee  where'er  thou  art, 
That  follows,  and  perchance,  with  thy  moist 

cheek, 

Dips  on  the  dozy  bottom  of  the  world. 
They  come,  Ulysses,  and  they  seek  to  rob 
Thy  glory  of  its  weaker  wearier  half. 
They  tell  me  thou  art  dead  ;  nay,  they  have 

brought 

To  these  cold  ears  that  bend  above  the  web 
Whispers  that  thou,  no  wiser  than  thy  peers, 
Hast  pluckt  upon  the  windy  plain  of  Troy 
A  flower  thou  shrinest  in  a  distant  land, 
A  chamber'd  delicacy  drowsy-eyed, 
Pink-lidded,   wanton,  like  the  queen  who 

witch'd 
The  fatal  apple  out  of  Paris'  palm. 

And  I— and  I — ah  me,  I  rise  my  height, 
In  matron  majesty  that  melts  in  tears, 
And  chide  them  from  me  with  a  tongue  that 

long 

Hath  lost  the  trick  of  chiding  :  what  avails  ? 
They  heed  me  not,  rude  men,  they  heed  me 

not; 

And  he  thou  leftest  here  to  guard  me  well, 
He,  the  old  man,  is  helpless,  and  his  eyes 
Are  yellow  with  the  money-minting  lie 
That  thou  art  dead.  O  husband,  what  avails? 
They  gather  on  me,  till  the  sense  grows  cold 
And  huddles  in  upon  the  steadfast  heart ; 
And  they  have  dragged  a  promise  from  my 

lips 

To  choose  a  murderer  of  my  love  for  thee, 
To  choose  at  will  from  out  the  rest  one  man 
To  slay  me  with  his  kisses  in  the  dark, 
Whene'er  the  weary  web  at  which  I  work 
Be  woven  :  so,  all  day,  I  weave  the  web  ; 
And  in  the  night  with  fingers  like  a  thief's 
Unweave  the  silken  sorrow  of  the  day. 


The  years  wear  on.  Telemachus,  thy  son, 
Grows  sweetly  to  the  height  of  all  thy  hope  : 
More  woman-like  than  thee,  less  strong  of 

limb, 
Yet  worthy  thee  ;  and  likest  thy  grave  mood, 


PENELOPE. 


5.3 


When,  in  old  time,  among  these  fields,  thine 

eye 

Would  kindle  on  a  battle  far  away. 
And  thy  proud  nostrils,  drinking  the  mild 

breath 

Of  tanned  haycocks  and  of  slanted  sheaves, 
Swell  suddenly,  as  if  a  trumpet  spake. 
Hast  thou  forgotten  how  of  old  he  loved 
To  toy  with  thy  great  beard,  and  sport  with 

thee, 
And  how,  in  thy  strong  grasp,  he  leapt  and 

seem'd 

A  lambkin  dandled  in  a  lion's  paw  ? 
But  change  hath  come,  Troy  is  an  old  wife's 

tale, 

And  sorrow  stealeth  early  on  thy  son, 
Whom  sojourn  with  my  weeping  woman- 
hood 
Hath  taught  too  soon  a  young  man's  gentls- 

ness. 

Behold  now,  how  his  burning  boy-face  turns 
With  impotent  words  beyond  all  blows  of 

arm 

On  those  rude  men  that  rack  thy  weary  wife  ! 
Then  turns  to  put  his  comfort  on  my  cheek, 
While  sorrow  brightens  round  him — as  the 

grey 
Of  heaven  melts  to  silver  round  a  star ! 

Return,  Ulysses,  ere  too  late,  too  late  : 
Return,  immortal  warrior,  return  : 
Return,  return,  and  end  the  weary  web  1 
For  day  by  day  I  look  upon  the  sea 
And  watch  each  ship  that  dippeth  like  a  gull 
Across  the  long  straight  line  afar  away 
Where  heaven  and  ocean  meet ;  and  when 

the  winds 

Swoop  to  the  waves  and  lift  them  by  the  hair, 
And  the  long  storm-roar  gathers,  on  my 

knees 

I  pray  for  thee.     Lo,  even  now,  the  deep 
Is  garrulous  of  thy  vessel  tempest-tost ; 
And  on  the  treeless  upland  gray-eyed  March, 
With  blue  and  humid   mantle  backward 

blown, 
Plucks  the  first  primrose  in  a  blustering 

wind. 

The  keels  are  wheel'd  unto  the  ocean  sand 
And  eyes  look  outward  for  the  homeward 

bound. 

And  not  a  marinere,  or  man  or  boy, 
Scum'd  and  salt-blooded  from  the  boisterous 


Touches  these  shores,  but  straight  I  summon 

him, 
And  bribe  with  meat  and  drink  to  tell  good 

news, 

And  question  him  of  thee.  But  what  avails  ? 
Thou  wanderest ;  and  my  love  sits  all  alone 
Upon  the  threshold  of  an  empty  hall. 

My  very  heart  has  grown  a  timid  mouse, 
Peeping  out,  fearful,  when  the  house  is  still. 
Breathless  I  listen  thro'  the  breathless  dark, 
And  hear  the  cock  counting  the  leaden  hours, 
And,  in  the  pauses  of  his  cry,  the  deep 
Swings  on  the  flat  sand  with  a  hollow  clang  ; 
And,  pale  and  burning-eyed,  I  fall  asleep 
When,  with  wild  hair,  across  the  weary  wave 
Stares  the  sick  Dawn  that  brings  thee  not 
to  me. 

Ulysses,   come !    Ere  traitors  leave  the 

mark 
Of    spread  wine-dripping  fingers  on    the 

smooth 
And  decent  shoulders  that  now  stoop  for 

thee! 

I  am  not  young  or  happy  as  of  old, 
When,  awed  by  thy  male  strength,  my  face 

grew  dark 

At  thy  grave  footfall,  with  a  serious  joy, 
Or  when,  with  blushing  backward-looking 

face, 

I  came  a  bride  to  thine  inclement  realm, 
Trembling  and  treading  fearfully  on  flowers. 
I  am  not  young  and  beauteous  as  of  old  ; 
And  much  I  fear  that  when  we  meet  thy  face 
May  startle  darkly  at  the  work  of  years, 
And  turn  to  hide  a  disappointed  pang, 
And  then,  with  thy  grave  pride,  subdue  itself 
Into  such  pity  as  is  love  stone-dead. 
But  thou,  thou  too,  art  old,  dear  lord — thy 

hair 

Is  threaded  with  the  silver  foam — thy  heart 
Is  weary  from  the  blows  of  cruel  years  ; 
And  there  is  many  a  task  thy  wife  can  do 
To  soothe  thy  sunset  season  and  make  calm 
Thy  journey  down  the  slow  descent  to  Sleep. 

Return,  return,  Ulysses,  ere  I  die  ! 
Upon  this  desolate,  desolate  strand  I  wait, 
Wearily  stooping  o'er  the  weary  web — 
An  alabaster  woman,  whose  fix'd  eyes 
Stare  seaward,  whether  it  be  storm  or  calm. 
And  ever,  evermore,  as  in  a  dream, 


THE    UNDERTONES. 


I  see  thee  gazing  hither  from  thy  ship 
In  sunset  regions  where  the  still  seas  rot, 
And    stretching    out    great    arms    whose 

shadows  fall 

Gigantic  on  the  glassy  purple  sea  ; 
And  ever,  evermore,  thou  lingerest, 
And  evermore  thy  coming  far  away 
Aches  on  the  burning  heartstrings, —ever- 
more 
Thou  comest  not,  and  I  am  tired  and  old. 


XII. 

SAPPHO : 
ON  THE  LEUCADIAN  ROCK. 

i. 

O  SWEET,  sweet,  sweet ! 
While  the  Moon,  with  her  dove's  eyes  fair, 
And  her  beautiful  yellow  hair, 

And  the  Sea-Snake  coiling  round  her  sil- 
vern feet, 
Walk'd  dumbly  up  above  in  the  jewell'd  air 

Waving  her  luminous  wings, 
To  sit  upon  this  crag  above  the  sea 
Clasp' d  close,  so  close,  to  thee, 

Pale  with  much  yearning,  while  the  mur- 

murings 
Of  the  great  waters  seem'd  to  waft  to  me 

The  name  of  Phaon, 

To  whisper  Phaon,  Phaon, 
Phaon,  Phaon,  Phaon,  with  deep  intonin  ', 

Hushfully,  hushfully  moaning  I 

2. 

O  bliss,  bliss,  bliss ! 

Though  the  Moon  look'd  pale  in  the  sky, 
On  thy  passionate  heart  to  lie, 

To  cling  to  thy  burning  lips  with  kiss  on 

kiss, 
Faintly  watching  the  butterfly  stars  swim  by 

In  the  track  of  that  queenly  Moon  ; 
And  in  a  dream,  clasp'd  close,  so  close,  to 

thee, 
To  list  and  seem  to  be 

A  portion  of  the  faint  monotonous  tune 
Made  for  its  mistress  by  the  serpent  sea, 

That  whisper'd  Phaon, 

Phaon,  Phaon,  Phaon, 
Phaon,  Phaon,  Phaon,  while  Dian  darken- 
ing 

Stoop'd  hushfully,  hushfully,  harkening  ! 


O  pain,  pain,  pain  ! 
While  the  Moon,  in  a  sky  as  clear 
As  of  old,  walks  on,  and  I  hear 

Her  palpitating  foot  on  the  living  main, 
While,  under  her  feet,  the  green  sea-snake 
creeps  near 

Hissing  with  scales  that  gleam, 
To  stand  upon  this  crag  beside  the  sea 
And  dream,  and  dream,  of  thee — 

With  clench' d  white  hands,  set  teeth,  and 

robes  that  stream 
Behind  me  in  the  wind,  while  audibly 

The  waves  moan  Phaon, 

Shriek  Phaon,  Phaon,  Phaon, 

Phaon,  Phaon,  Phaon,  with  deep  intoning, 

Mournfully,  mournfully,  moaning  1 


O  rest,  rest,  rest  !— 
While  the  Moon  with  her  virgin  light 
Thro'  eternities  of  night 

Dumbly  paces  on  to  the  east  from  the 

west, — 

To  mingle  with  the  waves  that  under  the 
height 

Murmur  along  the  shore, 
To  mix  my  virgin  love,  my  agony, 
Into  the  serpent  sea 

That  Dian  seeks  to  silence  evermore, 
To  cling  to  those  white  skirts  and  moan  of 
thee, 

O  Phaon,  Phaon, 

Restless  for  love  of  Phaon, 
Phaon,  Phaon,  Phaon,  with  ceaseless  motion 

Soothed  by  the  soother  of  Ocean  1 


XIII. 
THE  SYREN. 

AH,  kiss  me,  Sweetest,  while  on  yellow  sand 

Murmurs  the  breaking  billow, 
And  smoothe  my  silken  ringlets  with  thy 
hand, 

And  make  my  breast  thy  pillow  ; 
And  clasp  me,  Dearest,  close  to  lip  and  cheek 

And  bosom  softly  sighing, 
While  o'er  the  green  sea,  in  one  orange  streak, 

The  summer  day  is  dying  ! 
Kiss,  kiss,  as  one  that  presses  to  his  mouth 

A  vine-bunch  bursting  mellow, 


THE  SYREN. 


55 


In  this  lone  islet  of  the  sleepy  south 
Fringed  with  smooth  sands  yellow  : 

A  twilight  of  fresh  leaves  endusks  us  round, 
Flowers  at  our  feet  are  springing, 

And  wave  on  wave  breaks  smoothly  to  the 

sound 
Of  my  sweet  singing  ! 

EUMOLPUS. 

Is  it  the  voice  of  mine  own  Soul  I  hear  ? 

Or  some  white  sybil  of  the  sphered  ocean  ? 
And  are  these  living  limbs  that  lie  so  near, 

Stirring  around  me withla serpent-motion? 
Is  this  a  tress  of  yellow  yellow  hair, 

Around  my  finger  in  a  ring  enfolden  ? 
Whose  face  is  this,  so  musically  fair, 

That  swoons  upon  my  ken  thro'  vapours 

golden  ? 

What  sad  song  withers  on  the  odorous  air  ? 
Where  am  I,  where  ? 

Where  is  my  country  and  that  vision  olden? 

THE  SYREN. 

I  sang  thee  hither  in  thy  bark  to  land 

With  deftly  warbled  measure, 
I  wove  a  witch's  spell  with  fluttering  hand, 
Till  thou  wert  drunken,    Dearest,  with 

much  pleasure. 

At  hush  of  noon  I  had  thee  at  my  knee, 
And  round  thy  finger  pink  I  wound  a  curl, 
And  singing  smiled  beneath  with  teeth  of 

pearl, 
Of  what  had  been,   what  was,  and  what 

should  be 

Sang  dying  ditties  three  ! 
And  lo  !  thy  blood  was  ravish'd  with  the 

theme, 

And  lo !  thy  face  was  pale  with  drowsy  dream, 
While  stooping  low,  with  rich  lips  tremulous, 
I  kiss  thee  thus  !— and  thus  ! 

EUMOLPUS. 

Thy  kisses  trance  me  to  a  vision  wan 

Of  what  hath  been  and  neverm :  re  will  be. 
O  little  fishing-town  Sicilian, 

I  can  behold  thee  sitting  by  the  sea  ! 
O  little  red-tiled  town  where  1  was  born  ! 

O  days  ere  yet  I  sail'd  from  mortal  ken  ! 
Why  did  I  launch  upon  the  deep  forlorn, 

Nor  fish  in  shallow  pools  with  simple  men? 
It  was  a  charm  ;  for  while  I  rockt  at  ease 

Within  our  little  bay, 


There  came  a  melody  across  the  seas 

From  regions  far  away  ; 
And  ah  !  I  fell  into  a  swooning  sleep, 

And  all  the  world  had  changed  before  I 

knew, — 
And  I  awoke  upon  a  glassy  deep 

With  not  a  speck  of  land  to  break  the  view, 
And  tho'  I  was  alone,  I  did  not  weep, 

For  I  was  singing  too  ! 
I  sang !  I  sang !  and  with  mine  oars  kept  time 
Unto  the  rude  sweet  rhyme, 
And  went  a-sailing  on  into  the  west 

Blown  on  by  airs  divine, 
Singing  for  ever  on  a  wild-eyed  quest 

For  that  immortal  minstrel  feminine  ; 
And  night  and  day  went  past,  until  I  lost 

All  count  of  time,  yet  still  did  melodise  ; 

And  sun  and  stars  beheld  me  from  their 

skies  ; 

And  ships  swam  by  me,  from  whose  decks 
storm-tost 

Rude  seamen  gazed  with  terror-glazed  eyes. 
And  still  I  found  not  her  for  whom  I  sought, 

Yet  smiled  without  annoy, 
To  ply  the  easy  oar,  and  take  no  thought, 

And  sing,  was  such  sweet  joy  ! — 
Then  Tempest  came,  and  to  and  from  the  sky 

I  rose  and  fell  in  that  frail  bark  of  mine, 
While  the  snake  Lightning,  with  its  blank 
bright  eye, 

Writhed  fierily  in  swift  coils  serpentine 

Along  the  slippery  brine  ; 
And  there  were  days  when  dismal  sobbing 

Rain 

Made  melancholy  music  for  the  brain, 
And  hours  when  I  shriek'd  out  and  wept  in 
woe 

Prison'd  about  by  chilly  still  affright, 
While  all  around  dropt  hushed  flakes  of  Snow 

Melting  and  mingling  down  blue  chasms 

of  night. 
Yet  evermore,  I  heard  that  voice  sublime 

Twining  afar  its  weirdly  woven  song, 
And  ev  r,  ever  more,  mine  oars  kept  time, 
And  evermore  I  uttered  in  song 

My  yearnings  sad  or  merry,  faint  or  strong. 
Ah  me  !  my  love  for  her  afar  away, 
My  yearning  and  my  burning  night  and  day ! 
In  dreams  alone,  I  met  her  in  still  lands, 

And  knelt  in  tears  before  her, 
And  could  not  sing,  but  only  wring  mine 
hands, 

Adore  her  and  implore  her  ! 


THE    UNDERTONES. 


She  glisten'd  past  me  as  a  crane  that  sails 
Above  the  meeting  of  the  ocean-gales, 

With  waft  of  broad  slow  wing  to  regions 

new ; 

And  tho'  I  follow'd  her  from  place  to  place, 
She  held  her  veil  dew-spangled  to  her  face, 

And  I  could  merely  feel  her  eyes  of  blue 

Steadfastly  gazing  thro' ! 
Wherefore  my  heart  had  broken  quite, — but 

then 

I  would  awake  again, — 
To  see  the  oily  water  steep'd  in  rest 

While,  glistering  in  many-colour'd  flakes 
Harming  me  not,  lay  brooding  on  its  breast 

Leviathan  and  all  the  ocean-snakes, 
And  on  the  straight  faint  streak  afar  the  round 

Moist  eye  of  morning  lookt  thro'  dewy  air, 
And  all  was  still,  a  joyous  calm  profound, — 
And  I  would  break  the  charm  with  happy 
sound 

To  find  the  world  so  fair ! 
And  lo !  I  drank  the  rain-drops  and  was  glad, 

And  smote  the  bird  of  ocean  down  and  ate  ; 
And  ocean  harm'd  me  not,  and  monsters  sad 

That  people  ocean  and  the  desolate 
Abysses  spared  me, — charmed  by  the  song 

warbled  wildly  as  I  went  along. 
Yet  day  and  night  sped  on,  and  I  grew  old 

Before  I  knew  ;  and  lo  ! 
My  hands  were  wither'd,  on  my  bosom  cold 

There  droopt  a  beard  of  snow, — 
And  raising  hands  I  shriek* d,  I  cried  a  curse 

On  that  weird  voice  that  twined  me  from 

home  ; 
And  echoes  of  the  awful  universe 

Answer'd  me  ;  and  the  deep  with  lips  of 

foam 
Mock' d  me  and  spat  upon  me ;  and  the  things 

That  people  ocean  rose  and  threaten'd  ill, 
Yea  also  air-born  harpies  waving  wings, 

Because  I  could  not  sing  to  charm  them 

still. 
I  was  alone,  the  shadow  of  a  man, 

Haunting  the  trackless  waste  of  waves 

forlorn, 

Blown  on  by  pitiless  rains  and  vapours  wan, 
Plaining  for  that  small  town  Sicilian, 

Where,  in  the  sweet  beginning,  I  was  born  I 

THE  SYREN. 

Ah,  weep  not,  Dearest !  lean  upon  my  breast. 
While  sunset  darkens  stilly, 


And  Dian  poises  o'er  the  slumberous  west 

Her  silver  sickle  chilly  ; 
The  eyes  of  heaven  are  opening,  the  leaves 
Fold  dark  and  dewy  round  the  closing 

roses, 

In  lines  of  foam  the  breaking  billow  heaves, 
Each  thing  that  gladdens  and  each  thing 

that  grieves 
Dip  slow  to  sweet  reposes. 

EUMOLPUS. 

O  voice  that  lured  me  on,  I  know  thee  now  ! 
O  melancholy  eyes,  how  bright  ye  beam  ! 

0  kiss,  thy  touch  is  dewy  on  my  brow  ! 
Sweet  Spirit  of  my  dream  1 

THE  SYREN. 

Name  thy  love,  and  I  am  she, 
Name  thy  woe,  and  look  on  me, 
Name  the  weary  melody 
That  led  thee  hither  o'er  the  sea,— 
Then  call  to  mind  my  ditties  three 
Of  what  hath  been,  whatis,  and  whatshallbe ! 

EUMOLPUS. 

Ah  woe  !  ah  woe  ! 

1  see  thee  and  I  clasp  thee,  and  I  know  ! 
Sing  to  me,  Sweetest,  while  the  shadows 

grow— 

Sing  low  !  sing  low ! 
Oh,  sweet  were  slumber  now,  at  last,  at  last, 

For  I  am  sick  of  wandering  to  and  fro, 
And  ah !  my  singing-days  are  nearly  pass'd — 

Sing  low !  sing  low  !  sing  low  I 

THE  SYREN. 

Love  with  wet  cheek,  Joy  with  red  lips  apart, 
Hope  with  her  blue  eyes  dim  from  looking 

long, 
Ambition  with  thin  hand  upon  his  heart — 

Of  which  shall  be  the  song  ? 
Of  one,  of  one, 
Who  loved  till  life  was  done, 

For  life  with  him  was  loving,  tho1  she  slew 

his  love  with  wrong. 
Then,  on  a  winter  day, 
When  all  was  lost  and  his  young  brow  was 

gray, 

He  knelt  before  an  Altar  piled  proud 
With  bleached  bones  and  fruits  and  garlands 

gay, 
And  cried  aloud : — 


THE  SYREN. 


1  Have  I  brought  Joy,  and  slain  her  at  thy 

feet? 
Have  I  brought  Peace,  for  thy  cold  kiss 

to  kill, 

Have  I  brought  Youth  crowned  with  wild- 
flowers  sweet, 

With  sandals  dewy  from  a  morning  hill, 
For  thy  gray  solemn  eyes  to  fright  and 

chill? 
Have  I  brought  Scorn  the  pale  and  Hope 

the  fleet, 
And  First-Love  in  her  lily  winding-sheet  ? 

And  art  thou  pitiless  still  ? 
O  Poesy,  thou  nymph  of  fire, 
Grandest  of  that  fair  quire 
Which  in  the  dim  beginning  stoop' d  and 

fell,— 

So  beauteous  yet  so  awful,  standing  tall 
Upon    the    mountain-tops  where   mortals 

dwell, 

Seeing  strange  visions  of  the  end  of  all, 
And  pallid  from  the  white-heat  glare  of  Hell ! 
Is  there  no  prophecy,  far-seeing  one, 

To  seal  upon  these  lips  that  yearn  to  sing  ? 
Can  nought  be  gain'd  again?  can  nought 

be  won  ? 

Is  there  no  utterance  in  this  suffering, 
Is  there  no  voice  for  any  human  thing  ? ' 
Then,  smiling  in  the  impotence  of  pain, 

His  sweet  breath  at  the  Altar  did  he  yield,  — 
While  she  he  loved,  afar  across  the  main, 
Stoop'd  down  to  break  a  weary  people's  chain, 
And  crown  a  hero  on  a  battle-field ! 

EUMOLPUS. 

Ah  no  !  ah  no ! 

So  sad  a  theme  is  too  much  woe  ! 

Sing  to  me  sweetlier,  since  thou  lovest  me 

so  — 
Sing  low  ;  sing  low ! 

THE   SYREN. 

Sisters  we,  the  syrens  three, 
Fame  and  Love  and  Poesy  ! 
In  the  solitude  we  sit, 
On  the  mountain-tops  we  flit, 
From  the  islands  of  the  sea 
Luring  man  with  melody  ; 
Sisters  three  we  seem  to  him 
Foating  over  waters  dim, — 
Syrens,  syrens  three,  are  we — 
Fame  and  Love  and  Poesy ! 


EUMOLPUS. 

Ah  woe  !  ah  woe  ! 

That  is  the  song  I  heard  so  long  ago  ! 

That  is  the  song 

That  lured  me  long  : 

Those  were  the  three  I  saw,  with  arms  of  snow 

And  ringlets  waving  yellow,  beckoning, 
While  on  the  violet  deep  I  floated  slow, 

With  little  heart  to  sing  ; 
And  lo  !  they  faded  as  I  leapt  to  land, 

And  their  weird  music  wither'd  on  the  air, 
And  I  was  lying  drowsy  on  the  sand 

Smiling  and  toying  with  thy  yellow  hair  ! 

THE  SYREN. 

Sisters  we,  the  syrens  three, 
Fame  and  Love  and  Poesy, 
Sitting  singing  in  the  sun, 

While  the  weary  marinere 

Passes  on  or  faints  in  fear, — 
Sisters  three,  yet  only  one, 

When  he  cometh  near ! 
Charmed  sight  and  charmed  sound 
Hover  quietly  around, 
Mine  are  dusky  bowers  and  deep, 
Closed  lids  and  balmy  sleep, 
Kisses  cool  for  fever'd  cheeks  and  warmth 

for  eyes  that  weep ! 

EUMOLPUS. 
Sing  low  !  sing  low  ! 
Thou  art  more  wondrous  fair  than  mortals 

know. 

Bringest  thou,  Beautiful,  or  peace  or  woe? 
Close  up  each  eyelid  with  a  warm  rich  kiss 
And  let  me  listen  while  the  sunlights  go. 
I  cannot  bear  a  time  so  still  as  this, 
Unbroken  by  thy  voice's  fall  and  flow. 
Sing  to  me,   Beautiful !     Sing  low,  sing 
low,  sing  low ! 

THE  SYREN. 

Love  with  wet  cheek,  Joy  with  red  lips  apart, 
Hope  with  her  blue  eyes  dim  from  looking 
long, 

Ambition  with  thin  hand  upon  his  heart — 
Of  which  shall  be  the  song  ? 

Ah,  woe  !  ah,  woe  ! 

For  Love  is  dead  and  wintry  winds  do  blow. 

Yea,  Love  is  dead  ;  and  by  her  funeral  bier 

Ambition  gnaws  the  lip  and  sheds  no  tear  ; 


THE    UNDERTONES. 


And  in  the  outer  chamber  Hope  sits  wild, 

Watchingthefacesinthefire  and  weeping ; 
And  at  the  threshold  Joy  the  little  child 

With  rosy  cheeks  runs  leaping, 
And   stops. — while  in  the  misty  distance 

creeping 
Down  western  hills  the  large  red  sun  sinks 

slow — 
To  see  Death's  footprints  on  the  still  white 

snow. 

Ah,  Love  has  gone,  and  all  the  rest  must  go. 
Sing  low  !  sing  low  !  sing  low  ! 

EUMOLPUS. 

It  is  a  song  that  slays  me.     Sing  no  more. 

THE  SYREN. 

Ah,  Sweet,  the  song  is  o'er  ! — 

The  ocean-hum  is  hush'd,  'tis  end  of  day, 

The  long  white  foam  fades  faintly, 
The  orange  sunset  dies  into  the  gray 

Where  star  on  star  swims  saintly. 
Hastthou  not  sung?  and  is  not  song  enough? 

Hast  thou  not  loved  ?  and  is  not  loving  all? 
Art  thou  not  weary  of  the  wayfare  rough, 

Or  is  there  aught  of  life  thou  wouldst  recall? 
Ah  no,  ah  no  ! 
The  life  came  sweetly— sweetly  let  it  go  ! 

Mine  are  dusky  bowers  and  deep, 

Closed  eyes  and  balmy  sleep, 
Kisses  cool  for  fever'd  cheeks  and  warmth 
for  eyes  that  weep  1 

EUMOLPUS. 

Thou  art  the  gentle  witch  that  men  call 

Death  ! 

Ah,  Beauteous,  I  am  weary,  and  would 
rest  ! 

THE   SYREN. 

Lie  very  softly,  Sweet,  and  let  thy  breath 
Fade  calmly  on  my  breast ! 
Call  me  Love  or  call  me  Fame, 

Call  me  Death  or  Poesy, 
Call  me  by  whatever  name 

Seemeth  sweetest  unto  thee : — 
I  anoint  thee,  I  caress  thee; 
With  my  dark  reposes  bless  thee, 
I  redeem  thee,  I  possess  thee  ! 
I  can  never  more  forsake  thee  ! 

Slumber,  slumber,  peacefully, 

Slumber  calm  and  dream  of  me, 
Till  I  touch  thee,  and  awake  thee  ! 


EUMOLPUS. 

Diviner  far  than  song  divine  can  tell  ! 
Thine  eyes  are  dim  with  dreams  of  that 

awaking  ! 
Yea,    let   me   slumber,  for   my  heart  is 

breaking 

With  too  much  love.     Farewell  !  farewell ! 
farewell ! 

THE  SYREN. 

Charmed  sight  and  charmed  sound 
Close  the  weary  one  around  ! 
Charmed  dream  of  charmed  sleep 
Make  his  waiting  sweet  and  deep  ! 
Husht  be  all  things  !     Let  the  spell 
Duskly  on  his  eyelids  dwell ! 

EUMOLPUS. 

Farewell !  farewell !  farewell  1 

THE  SYREN. 

O  melancholy  waters,  softly  flow  ! 

O    Stars,   shine    softly,    dropping  dewy 

balm! 
O  Moon  walk  on  in  sandals  white  as  snow  ! 

O  Winds,  be  calm,  be  calm  ! 
For  he  is  tired  with  wandering  to  and  fro, 
Yea,  weary  with  unrest  to  see  and  know. 
O  charmed  sound 
That  hoverest  around  ! 
O  voices  of  the  Night !  Sing  low  !  sing  low  1 
sing  low  ! 

XIV. 
A  VOICE  FROM   ACADEME. 

OVER  this  azure  poplar  glade 
The  sunshine,  fainting  high  above, 
Ebbs  back  from  woolly  clouds  that  move 
Like  browsing  lambs  and  cast  no  shade  ; 
And  straight  before  me,  faintly  seen 
Thro'  emerald  boughs  that  intervene, 
The  visible  sun  turns  white  and  weaves 
Long  webs  of  silver  thro'  the  leaves. 
The  grassy  sward  beneath  my  foot 
Is  soft  as  lips  of  lambs  and  beeves. 
How  cool  those  harebells  at  the  root 
Of  yonder  tree,  that  dimly  dance 
Thro'  dews  of  their  own  radiance  ! 

Yonder  I  see  the  river  run, 

Half  in  the  shade,  half  in  the  sun  ; 


A    VOICE  FROM  ACADEME— PYGMALION  THE  SCULPTOR.     59 


And  as  I  near  its  shallow  brink 

The  sparkling  minnows,  where  they  lie 

With  silver  bellies  to  the  sky, 

Flash  from  me  in  a  shower  and  sink. 

I  stand  in  shadows  cool  and  sweet, 

But  in  the  mirror  at  my  feet 

The  heated  azure  heavens  wink. 

All  round  about  this  shaded  spot, 
Whither  the  sunshine  cometh  not, 
Where  all  is  beautiful  repose — 
I  know  the  kindled  landskip  glows  ; 
And  further,  flutter  golden  showers 
On  proud  Athenai  white  with  towers, 
And  catching  from  the  murmurous  sea, 
[Stain'd  with  deep  shadows  as  of  flowers 
And  dark'ning  down  to  purple  bowers 
Thro'  which  the  sword-fish  darts  in  glee,] 
A  strife  that  cometh  not  to  me. 

For  in  this  place  of  shade  and  sound, 
Hid  from  the  garish  heat  around, 
I  feel  like  one  removed  from  strain 
And  fever  of  the  happy  brain — 
Where  thoughts  thrill  fiery  into  pain  : 
Like  one  who,  in  the  pleasant  shade 
The  peaceful  pulseless  dead  have  made, 
Walking  in  silence,  just  perceives 
The  gaudy  world  from  which  he  went 
Subdue  itself  to  his  content, 
Like  that  white  globe  beyond  the  leaves  ! 


XV. 

PYGMALION   THE  SCULPTOR. 
'  Materiem  super abat  opus' 

i.  SHADOW. 

UPON  the  very  morn  I  should  have  wed 
Death  put  his  silence  in  a  mourning  house  ; 
And,  coming  fresh  from  feast,  I  saw  her  lie 
In  stainless  marriage  samite,  white  and  cold, 
With  orange  blossoms  in  her  hair,   and 

gleams 

Of  the  ungiven  kisses  of  the  bride 
Playing  about  the  edges  of  her  lips. 

Then  I,  Pygmalion,  kiss'd  her  as  she  slept, 
And  drew  my  robe  across  my  face  whereon 
The  midnight  revel  linger'd  dark,  and 

pray'd ; 
And  the  sore  trouble  hollow'd  out  my  heart 


To  hatred  of  a  harsh  unhallow'd  youth 
As  I  glode  forth.    Next,  day  by  day,  my  soul 
Grew  conscious  of  itself  and  of  its  fief 
Within  the  shadow  of  her  grave  :  therewith, 
Waken'd  a  thirst  for  silence  such  as  dwells 
Under  the  ribs  of  death :  whence  slowly  grew 
Old  instincts  that  had  tranced  me  to  tears 
In  mine  unsinew'd  boyhood,  sympathies 
Full  of  faint  odours  and  of  music  faint 
Like  buds  of  roses  blowing  ; — till  I  felt 
Her  voice  come  down  from  heaven  on  my 

soul, 

And  stir  it  as  a  wind  that  droppeth  down 
Unseen,  unfelt,  unheard,  until  its  breath 
Troubles  the  shadows  in  a  sleeping  lake. 

And  the  voice  said,    '  Pygmalion,'  and 

'Behold,' 
I  answer1  d,   '  I  am  here  ; '  when  thus  the 

voice  : 
1  Put  men  behind  thee — take  thy  tools,  and 

choose 

A  block  of  marble  white  as  is  a  star, 
Cleanse  it  and  make  it  pure,  and  fashion  it 
After  mine  image  :  heal  thyself  :  from  grief 
Comes  glory,  like  a  rainbow  from  a  cloud. 
For  surely  life  and  death,  which  dwell  apart 
In  grosser  human  sense,  conspire  to  make 
The  breathless  beauty  and  eternal  joy 
Of  sculptured  shapes  in  stone.     Wherefore 

thy  life 

Shall  purify  itself  and  heal  itself 
In  the  long  toil  of  love  made  meek  by  tears.' 

I  barr'd  the  entrance-door  to  this  my  tower 
Against  the  hungry  world,  I  hid  above 
The  mastiff-murmur  of  the  town,  I  pray'd 
In  my  pale  chamber.    Then  I  wrought,  and 

chose 

A  rock  of  marble  white  as  is  a  star, 
And  to  her  silent  image  fashion' d  clay, 
And  purified  myself  and  heal'd  myself 
In  the  long  toil  of  love  made  meek  by  tears. 

2.  THE  MARBLE  LIFE. 

THE  multitudinous  light  oppress'd  me  not, 
But  smiled  subdued,  as  a  young  mother 

smiles, 

When  fearful  lest  the  sunbeam  of  the  smile 
Trouble  the  eyelids  of  the  babe  asleep. 

As  Ocean  murmurs  when  the  storm  is  past 
And  keeps  the  echoed  thunders  many  days, 


6o 


THE   UNDERTONES. 


My  solitude  was  troublous  for  a  time  : 
Wherefore  I  should  have  harden'd ;  but  the 

clay 
Grew  to  my  touch,   and  brighten'd,   and 

assumed 

Fantastic  images  of  natural  things, 
Which,  melting  as  the  fleecy  vapours  melt 
Around  the  shining  cestus  of  the  moon, 
Made  promise  of  the  special  shape  I  loved. 
Withdrawing  back,  I  gazed.   The  unshaped 

stone 

Took  outline  in  the  dusk,  as  rocks  unhewn 
Seen  from  afar  thro'  floating  mountain  mists 
Gather  strange  forms  and  human  lineaments. 
And  thus  mine  eye  was  filled  with  what  I 

sought 

As  with  a  naked  image,  thus  I  grew 
Self-credulous  of  the  form  the  stone  would 

wear, 

And  creeping  close  I  strove  to  fashion  clay 
After  the  vision.     Day  and  night,  I  drew 
New  comfort  from  my  grief ;  my  tears  became 
As  honey'd  rain  that  makes  the  woodbine 

sweet, 

Until  my  task  assumed  a  precious  strength 
Wherewith  I  fortified  mine  inner  ear 
Against  the  pleadings  of  the  popular  tongue 
That  babbled  at  my  door  ;  and  when  there 

dawn'd 

A  hand  as  pure  as  milk  and  cold  as  snow, 
A  small  white  hand,  a  little  radiant  hand, 
That  peep'd  out  perfect  from  the  changing 

mass, 

And  seem'd  a  portion  of  some  perfect  shape 
Unfreed,  imprison'd  in  the  stone,— I  wept 
Warm  tears  of  utter  joy,  and  kiss'd  the 

hand, 

As  sweet  girl-mothers  kiss  the  newly  born, 
Weak  as  a  mother.    Then  I  heard  no  more 
The  murmurous  swarm  beneath  me,  women 

and  men  ; 

But,  hoarded  in  my  toil,  I  counted  not 
The  coming  and  the  going  of  the  sun  : 
Save  when  I  swoon' d  to  sleep  before  the 

stone, 
And  dream'd,  and  dreaming  saw  the  perfect 

shape 

Emblazon'd,  like  the  rainbow  in  a  stream, 
On  the  transparent  tapestry  of  sleep. 

Ah  me,  the  joy,  the  glory,  and  the  dream, 
When  like  a  living  wonder  senseless  stone 
Smiles  to  the  beating  of  a  heart  that  hangs 


Suspended  in  the  tumult  of  the  blood  ! 
To  the  warm  touch  of  my  creating  hand 
The  marble  was  as  snow  ;  and  like  the  snow 
Whereon  the  molten  sunshine  gleams  as 

blood, 
It  soften'd,  glow'd,  and  changed.     As  one 

who  stands 

Beneath  the  cool  and  rustling  dark  to  watch 
The  shadow  of  his  silently  beloved 
Cross  o'er  the  lighted  cottage  blind  and  feel 
The  brightness  of  the  face  he  cannot  see, 
So  stood  I,    trembling,    while  the    shape 

unborn 

Darken'd  across  the  white  and  milky  mass 
And  left  the  impress  of  its  loveliness 
To  glorify  and  guide  me.     As  I  wrought 
The  Past  came  back  upon  me,  like  the  ghost 
Of  the  To-Come.     Whate'er  was  pure  and 

white, 

Soft-shining  with  a  snow-like  chastity, 
Came  back  from  childhood,  and  from  that 

dim  land 

Which  lies  behind  the  horizon  of  the  sense, 
Felt  though  forgotten  ;  vanishings  divine 
Of  the  strange  vapours  many-shaped  and  fair 
Which  moisten  sunrise  when  the  eye  of 

heaven 

Openeth  dimly  from  the  underworld  : 
Faint  instincts  of  the  helpless  babe  that 

smiles 

At  the  sweet  pictures  in  its  mother's  eyes 
And  lieth  with  a  halo  round  its  head 
Of  beauty  uncompleted  :  memories 
Of  young  Love's  vivid  heaven-enthroned 

light, 
By  whose  moist  rays  the  pensive  soul  of 

youth 

Was  troubled  at  the  fountains,  like  a  well 
Wherein  the  mirror'd  motion  of  a  star 
Lies  dewy  and  deep  ;— and,  amid  all,  there 

dwelt 

A  vaguer  glory,  deeper  sense  of  power, 
Scarce  conscious  of  itself  yet  ruling  all, 
Like  the  hid  heart  which  rocks  the  jaded 

blood, 
Brightens  the  cheek,  throbs  music  to  the 

brain. 

Yet  dwells  within  the  breast  scarce  recog- 
nised, 

Save  when  our  pulses  warn  us  and  in  fear 
We  pause  to  listen. — Even  so  at  times 
Those  visions  tranced  me  to  a  dumb  dismay, 
And,  sudden  music  thronging  in  mine  ears, 


PYGMALION   THE  SCULPTOR. 


61 


I  hearken'd  for  that  central  loveliness 
Whose  magic  guided  and  created  all. 

Then  languor  balmier  than  the  blood  i' 

the  veins 
When  youth  and  maiden  mingle  and  the 

moon 
Breathes  on  the  odorous  room  wherein  they 

lie 

Chamber'd  as  in  a  folded  rose's  leaves, 
Oppress'd  me,  and  a  lover's  rapture  fill'd 
My  soul  to  swooning.   Lo,  I  kiss'd  the  stone, 
And  toy'd  with  the  cold  hand,  and  look'd 

for  light 

In  the  dim  onward-looking  marble  eyes, 
And  smooth'd  the  hair  until  it  seem'd  to 

grow 

Soft  as  the  living  ringlets  tingling  warm 
Against  a  heaving  bosom.     At  her  feet 
I  knelt,  and  tingled  to  the  finger-tips 
To  gaze  upon  her  breathless  loveliness — 
Like  one  who,  shuddering,  gazes  on  a  shrine 
From  human  eyes  kept  holy. 

Then  at  last 

Fair-statured,  noble,  like  an  awful  thing 
Frozen  upon  the  very  verge  of  life, 
And  looking  back  along  eternity 
With  rayless  eyes  that  keep  the  shadow 

Time, 

She  rose  before  me  in  the  milky  stone, 
White-limb'd,  immortal ;  and  I  gazed  and 

gazed 

Like  one  that  sees  a  vision,  and  in  awe 
Half  hides  his  face,  yet  looks,  and  seems  to 

dream. 


3.    THE  SIN. 

BLUE  night.    I  threw  the  lattice  open  wide, 
Drinking  the  odorous  air  ;  and  from  my 

height 

I  saw  the  watch-fires  of  the  town  and  heard 
The  gradual  dying  of  the  murmurous  day. 
Then,  as  the  twilight  deepen'd,  on  her  limbs 
The  silver  lances  of  the  stars  and  moon 
Were  shatter'd,  and  the  shining  fragments 

fell 

Resplendent  at  her  feet.     The  Cyprian  star 
Quiver'd  to  liquid  emerald  where  it  hung 
On  the  ribb'd  ledges  of  the  darkening  hills, 
Gazing  upon  her  ;  and,  as  in  a  dream, 
Meth  ought   the  marble,   underneath   that 

look, 


Stirr'd — like  a  bank  of  stainless  asphodels 
Kiss'd  into  tumult  by  a  wind  of  light. 

Whereat  there  swam  upon  me  utterly 
A  drowsy  sense  wherein  my  holy  dream 
Was  melted,  as  a  pearl  in  wine :  bright-eyed, 
Keen,  haggard,  passionate,  with  languid 

thrills 

Of  insolent  unrest,  I  watch'd  the  stone, 
And  lo,  I  loved  it :  not  as  men  love  fame, 
Not  as  the  warrior  loves  his  laurel  wreath, 
But  with  prelusion  of  a  passionate  joy 
That  threw  me  from  the  height  whereon  I 

stood 

To  grasp  at  Glory,  and  in  impiousness 
Of  sweet  communing  with  some  living  Soul 
Chamber'd  in  that  cold  bosom.   As  I  gazed, 
There  was  a  buzz  of  revel  in  mine  ears, 
And  tinkling  fragments  of  a  song  of  love, 
Warbled  by  wantons  over  wine-cups,  swam 
Wildly    within    the   brain.— Then    I    was 

shamed 

By  her  pale  beauty,  and  I  scorn' d  myself, 
And  standing  at  the  lattice  dark  and  cool 
Watch'd  the  dim  winds  of  twilight  enter  in, 
And  draw  a  veil  about  that  loveliness 
White,  dim,  and  breathed  on  by  the  common 

air. 

But,  like  a  snake's  moist  eye,  the  dewy  star 
Of  lovers  drew  me ;  and  I  watched  it  grow 
Large,  soft,  and  tremulous  ;  and  as  I  gazed 
In  fascinated  impotence  of  heart, 
I  pray'd  the  lifeless  silence  might  assume 
A  palpable  life,  and  soften  into  flesh, 
And  be  a  beautiful  and  human  joy 
To  crown  my  love  withal ;  and  thrice  the 

prayer 

Blacken'd  across  my  pale  face  with  no  word. 
But  thro'  the  woolly  silver  of  a  cloud 
The  cool  star  dripping  emerald  from  the 

baths 

Of  Ocean  brighten' d  in  upon  my  tower, 
And  touch'd  the  marble  forehead  with  a 

gleam 

Soft,  green,  and  dewy ;  and  I  said  '  the  prayer 
Is  heard  ! ' 

The  live-long  night,  the  breathless 

night 

I  waited  in  a  darkness,  in  a  dream, 
Watching  the  snowy  figure  faintly  seen, 
And  ofttimes  shuddering  when  I  seem'd  to 


THE    UNDERTONES. 


Life,  like  a  taper  burning  in  a  skull, 
Gleam  thro'  the  rayless  eyes  :  yea,  wearily 
I  hearken'dthro'  the  dark  and  seem'd  to  hear 
The  low  warm  billowing  of  a  living  breast, 
Or  the  slow  motion  of  anointed  limbs 
New-stirring  into  life  ;  and,  shuddering, 
Fearing  the  thing  I  hoped  for,  awful  eyed, 
On  her  cold  breast  I  placed  a  hand  as  cold 
And  sought  a  fluttering  heart. — But  all  was 

still, 
And  chill,  and  breathless  ;  and  she  gazed 

right  on 

With  rayless  orbs,  nor  marvell'd  at  my  touch : 
White,  silent,  pure,  ineffable,  a  shape 
Rebuking  human  hope,  a  deathless  thing, 
Sharing  the  wonder  of  the  Sun  who  sends 
His  long  bright  look  thro1  all  futurity. 

When  Shame  lay  heavy  on  me,  and  I  hid 
My  face,  and  almost  hated  her,  my  work, 
Because  she  was  so  fair,  so  human  fair, 
Yea  not  divinely  fair  as  that  pure  face 
Which,  when  mine  hour  of  loss  and  travail 

came, 
Haunted  me,    out  of  heaven.     Then  the 

Dawn 

Stared  in  upon  her  :  when  I  open'd  eyes, 
And  saw  the  gradual  Dawn  encrimson  her 
Like  blood  that  blush'd  within  her,— and 

behold 
She  trembled — and  I  shriek'd  ! 

With  haggard  eyes, 

I  gazed  on  her,  my  fame,  my  work,  my  love  ! 
Red  sunrise  mingled  with  the  first  bright 

flush 
Of  palpable  life— she  trembled,  stirr'd,  and 

sigh'd — 

And  the  dim  blankness  of  her  stony  eyes 
Melted  to  azure.     Then,  by  slow  degrees, 
She  tingled  with  the  warmth  of  living  blood  : 
Her  eyes  were  vacant  of  a  seeing  soul, 
But  dewily  the  bosom  rose  and  fell, 
The  lips  caught  sunrise,  parting,  and  the 

breath 
Fainted  thro'  pearly  teeth. 

I  was  as  one 

Who  gazes  on  a  goddess  serpent-eyed, 
And  cannot  fly,  and  knows  to  look  is  death. 
O  apparition  of  my  work  and  wish  ! 
The  weight  of  awe  oppress'd  me,  and  the 

air 
Swung  as  the  Seas  swing  around  drowning 


4.     DEATH  IN  LIFE. 

ABOUT  her  brow  the  marble  hair  had  clung 
With  wavy  tresses,  in  a  simple  knot 
Bound  up  and  braided  ;  but  behold,  her  eyes 
Droop'd  downward,   as  she  wonder'd  at 

herself, 

Then  flush'd  to  see  her  naked  loveliness, 
And  trembled,  stooping  downward  ;  and  the 

hair 

Unloosening  fell,  and  brighten'd  as  it  fell, 
Till  gleaming  ringlets  tingled  to  the  knees 
And  cluster'd  round  about  her  where  she 

stood 

As  yellow  leaves  around  a  lily's  bud, 
Making  a  fountain  round  her  such  as  clips 
A  Naiad  in  the  sunshine,  pouring  down 
And  throwing  moving  shadows  o'er  the  floor 
Whereon  she  stood  and  brighten'd. 

Wondering  eyed, 
With  softly  heaving  breast  and  outstretch'd 

arms, 

Slow  as  an  eyeless  man  who  gropes  his  way, 
She  thrust  a  curving  foot  and  touch'd  the 

ground, 
And  stirr'd  ;  and,  downcast-lidded,  saw  not 

me. 

Then  as  the  foot  descended  with  no  sound, 
The  whole  live  blood  grew  pink  within  the 

veins 

For  joy  of  its  own  motion.  Step  by  step, 
She  paced  the  chamber,  groping  till  she 

gain'd 
One  sunlight-slip  that  thro'  the  curtain'd 

pane 
Crept  slant — a  gleaming  line  on  wall  and 

floor; 

And  there,  in  light,  she  pausing  sunn'd  her- 
self 
With  half-closed  eyes  ;  while  flying  gleams 

of  gold 

Sparkled  like  flies  of  fire  among  her  hair, 
And  the  live  blood  show'd  brightlier,  as  wine 
Gleams  thro'  a  curd-white  cup  of  porcelain. 

There,  stirring  not,  she  paused  and  sunn'd 

herself, 
With  drooping  eyelids  that  grew  moist  and 

warm, 

What  time,  withdrawn  into  the  further  dark, 
I   watch'd  her,   nerveless,   as  a  murderer 

stretch' d 
Under  a  nightmare  of  the  murder'd  man. 


PYGMALION  THE   SCULPTOR. 


And  still  she,  downcast-lidded,  saw  me  not ; 
But  gather'd  glory  while  she  sunn'd  herself, 
Drawing  deep  breath  of  gladness  such  as 

earth 
Breathes  dewily  in  the  sunrise  after  rain. 

Then  pray'd  I,  lifting  up  my  voice  aloud. 
'  O  apparition  of  my  work  and  wish  ! 
Thou  most  divinely  fair  as  she  whose  face 
Haunted  me,  out  of  heaven  !     Raise  thine 

eyes  ! 
Live,  love,  as  thou  and  I  have  lived  and 

loved  ! 

Behold  me — it  is  I — Pygmalion. 
Speak,  Psyche,  with  thy  human  eyes  and 

lips, 
Speak,  to  Pygmalion,  with  thy  human  soul ! ' 

Andstillshe,  downcast-lidded,  sawmenot, 
But  gather'd  glory  as  she  sunn'd  herself. 
Yet  listen'd  murmuring  inarticulate  speech, 
Listen'd  with  ear  inclined  and  fluttering  lids, 
As  one  who  lying  on  a  bed  of  flowers 
Hearkeneth  to  the  distant  fall  of  waves, 
That  cometh  muffled  in  the  drowsy  hum 
Of  bees  pavilion'd  among  roses'  leaves 
Near  to  the  ears  that  listen.     So  she  stood 
And  listen'd  to  my  voice,  framing  her  lips 
After  the  speech ;  nay,  when  the  sound  had 

ceased, 

Still  listen'd,  with  a  shadow  on  her  cheek — 
Like  the  Soul's  Music,  when  the  Soul  has 

fled, 
Fading  upon  a  dead  Musician's  face. 

But,    stooping  in  mine  awe,  with   out- 
stretch1 d  arms, 

I  crept  to  her  ;  nor  stirr'd  she,  till  my  breath 
Was  warm  upon  her  neck  :  then  raised  she 

eyes 

Of  dewy  azure,  ring  in  ring  of  blue 
Less'ning  in  passionate  orbs  whereon  my 

face 
Fell  white  with  yearning  wonder ;  when  a 

cry 

Tore  her  soft  lips  apart,  the  gleaming  orbs 
Widen'd  to  silvery  terror,  and  she  fled, 
With  yellow  locks  that  shone  and  arms  that 

waved, 
And  in  the  further  darkness  cower'd  and 

moan'd, 
Dumb  as  a  ringdove  that  with  fluttering 

wings 
Watches  a  serpent  in  the  act  to  spring. 


What  follow'd  was  a  strange  and  wondrous 

dream 

Wherein,  half  conscious,  wearily  and  long 
I  wooed  away  her  fears  with  gentle  words, 
Smooth  gestures,  and  sweet  smiles, — with 

kindness  such 

As  calms  the  terror  of  a  new-yean'd  lamb, 
So  pure,  it  fears  its  shadow  on  the  grass  ; 
And  all  the  while  thick  pulses  of  my  heart 
Throng'd  hot  in  ears  and  eyelids, — for  my 

Soul 
Seem'd  swooning,   deaden'd  in  the  sense, 

like  one 
Who  sinks  in  snows,  and  sleeps,  and  wakes 

no  more. 

Yet  was  I  conscious  of  a  hollow  void, 
A  yearning  in  the  tumult  of  the  blood, 
Her  presence  fill'd  not,  quell'd  not  ;  and  I 

search'd 
Her  eyes  for  meanings  that  they  harbour'd 

not, 

Her  face  for  beauty  that  disturb'd  it  not. 
'Twas  Psyche's  face,  and  yet  'twas  not  her 

face, 

A  face  most  fair,  yet  not  so  heavenly  fair, 
As  hers  who,  when  my  time  of  travail  came, 
Haunted  me,  out  of  heaven.     For  its  smile 
Brought  no  good  news  from  realms  beyond 

the  sun, 

The  lips  framed  heavenly  nor  human  speech, 
And  to  the  glorious  windows  of  the  eyes 
No  Soul  clomb  up — to  look  upon  the  stars, 
And  search  the  void  for  glimpses  of  the  peaks 
Of  that  far  land  of  morning  whence  it  comes. 

Then,  further,  I   was  conscious  that  my 

face 
Had  lull'd  her  fears  ;  that  close  to  me  she 

came 
Tamer  than  beast,  and  toy'd  with  my  great 

beard, 
And  murmur'd  sounds  like  prattled  infants' 

speech, 

And  yielding  to  my  kisses  kissed  again. 
Whereat,  in  scorn  of  my  pale  Soul,  I  cried, 
'  Here  will  I  feast  in  honour  of  this  night ! ' 
And  spread  the  board  with  meats  and  fruits 

and  wine, 

And  drew  the  curtain  with  a  wave  of  arm 
Bidding  the  sunlight  welcome :  lastly, 

snatch' d 
A  purple  robe  of  richness  from  the  wall, 


THE    UNDERTONES. 


And  flung  it  o'er  her  while  she  kiss'd  and 

smiled, 
Girdling  the  waist  with  clasp  and  cord  of 

gold. 

Then  sat  we,  side  by  side.     She,  queenly 

stoled, 

Amid  the  gleaming  fountain  of  her  hair, 
With  liquid  azure  orbs  and  rosy  lips 
Gorgeous  with  honey'd  kisses  ;    I,  like  a 

man 
Who  loves  fair  eyes  and  knows  they  are  a 

fiend's, 

And  in  them  sees  a  heav'n  he  knows  is  hell. 
For,  like  a  glorious  feast,  she  ate  and  drank, 
Staining  her  lips  in  crimson  wine,  and 

laugh'd 

To  feel  the  vinous  bubbles  froth  and  burst 
In  veins  whose  sparking  blood  was  meet 

to  be 

A  spirit's  habitation.     Cup  on  cup 
I  drain'd  in  fulness — careless  as  a  god — 
A  haggard  bearded  head  upon  a  breast 
In  tumult  like  a  sun-kist  bed  of  flowers. 

But  ere,  suffused  with  light,  the  eyes  of 

Heaven 
Widen'd  to  gaze  upon    the    white-arm'd 

Moon, 
Stiller  than  stone  we  reign'd  there,  side  by 

side. 

Yea,  like  a  lonely  King  whose  Glory  sits 
Beside  him, — impotent  of  life  but  fair, — 
Brightly  apparelled  I  sat  above 
The  tumult  of  the  town,  as  on  a  throne, 
Watching  her  wearily  ;  while  far  away 
The  sunset  dark'd  like  dying  eyes  that  shut 
Under  the  waving  of  an  angel's  wing. 

5.    SHADOW. 

THREE  days  and  nights  the  vision  dwelt 

with  me, 
Three  days  and  nights  we  dozed  in  dreadful 

state, 

Look'd  piteously  upon  by  sun  and  star  ; 
But  the  third  night  there  pass'd  a  homeless 

sound 

Across  the  city  underneath  my  tower, 
And  lo  !  there  came  a  roll  of  muffled  wheels, 
A  shrieking  and  a  hurrying  to  and  fro 
Beneath,  and  I  gazed  forth.    Then  far  below 
I  heard  the  people  shriek  '  A  pestilence  ! ' 


But,  while  they  shriek'd,  they  carried  forth 

their  Dead, 

And  flung  them  out  upon  the  common  ways, 
And  moaning  fled  :  while  far  across  the  hills 
A  dark  and  brazen  sunset  ribb'd  with  black 
Glared,  like  the  sullen  eyeballs  of  the  plague. 

I  turn'd  to  her,  the  partner  of  my  height : 
She,  with  bright  eyeballs  sick  with  wine, 

and  hair 

Gleaming  in  sunset,  on  a  couch  asleep. 
And  lo  !  a  horror  lifted  up  my  scalp, 
The  pulses  plunged  upon  the  heart,  and  fear 
Froze  my  wide  eyelids.     Peacefully  she  lay 
In  purple  stole  array'd,  one  little  hand 
Bruising  the  downy  cheek,  the  other  still 
Clutching  the  dripping  goblet,  and  the  light, 
With  gleams  of  crimson  on  the  ruinous  hair, 
Spangling  a  blue-vein'd  bosom  whence  the 

robe 
Fell    back    in    rifled  folds  ;  but  dreadful 

change 

Grew  pale  and  hideous  on  the  waxen  face, 
And  in  her  sleep  she  did  not  stir,  nor  dream. 
Therefore,  it  seem'd,  Death  pluck'd  me  by 

the  sleeve, 
And,  sweeping  past,  with  lean  forefinger 

touch 'd 
The    sleeper's    brow  and  smiled ;    when, 

shrinking  back, 

I  turn'd  my  face  away,  and  saw  afar 
The  brazen  sullen  sunset  ribb'd  with  black 
Glare    on    her,   like    the  eyeballs  of   the 

plague  I 

O  apparition  of  my  work  and  wish  ! 
Shrieking  I  fled,  my  robe  across  my  face, 
And  left  my  glory  and  my  woe  behind, 
And  sped,  thro'  pathless  woods,  o'er  moon- 
lit peaks, 
Toward  sunrise  ; — nor  have  halted  since 

that  hour, 

But  wander  far  away,  a  homeless  man, 
Prophetic,  orphan'd  both  of  name  and  fame. 
Nay,  like  a  timid  Phantom  evermore 
I  come  and  go  with  haggard  warning  eyes  ; 
And  some,  that  sit  with  lemans  over  wine, 
Or  dally  idly  with  the  glorious  hour, 
Turn  cynic  eyes  away  and  smile  aside  ; 
And  some  are  saved  because  they  see  me 

pass, 

And,  shuddering,  yet  constant  to  their  task, 
Look  up  for  comfort  to  the  silent  stars. 


ANTONY  IN  ARMS— FINE    WEATHER    ON  THE   DIGENTIA.     65 


XVI. 
ANTONY  IN  ARMS. 

Lo,  we  are  side  by  side  ! — One  dark  arm 
furls 

Around  me  like  a  serpent  warm  and  bare  ; 
The  other,  lifted  "mid  a  gleam  of  pearls, 

Holds  a  full  golden  goblet  in  the  air : 
Her  face  is  shining  through  her  cloudy  curls 

With  light  that  makes  me  drunken  un- 
aware, 

And  with  my  chin  upon  my  breast  I  smile 
Upon  her,  darkening  inward  all  the  while. 

And  thro'  the  chamber  curtains,  backward 
roll'd 

By  spicy  winds  that  fan  my  fever' d  head, 
I  see  a  sandy  flat  slope  yellow  as  gold 

To  the  brown  banks  of  Nilus  wrinkling  red 
In  the  slow  sunset ;  and  mine  eyes  behold 

The  West,  low  down  beyond  the  river's 

bed, 

Grow  sullen,  ribb'd  with  many  a  brazen  bar, 
Under  the  white  smile  of  the  Cyprian  star. 

A  bitter  Roman  vision  floateth  black 
Before  me,  in  my  dizzy  brain's  despite  ; 

The  Roman  armour  brindles  on  my  back, 
My  swelling  nostrils  drink  the  fumes  of 
fight: 

But  then,  she  smiles  upon  me  ! — and  I  lack 
The  warrior  will  that  frowns  on  lewd 
delight, 

And,  passionately  proud  and  desolate, 

I  smile  an  answer  to  the  joy  I  hate. 

Joy  coming  uninvoked,  asleep,  awake, 
Makes  sunshine  on  the  grave  of  buried 

powers ; 

Ofttimes  I  wholly  loathe  her  for  the  sake 
\     Of  manhood  slipt  away  in  easeful  hours  : 
But  from  her  lips  mild  words  and  kisses 

break, 

Till  I  am  like  a  ruin  mock'd  with  flowers  ; 
I  think  of  Honour's  face— then  turn  to  hers — 
Dark,  like  the  splendid  shame  that  she  con- 
fers. 

Lo,  how  her  dark  arm  holds  me  ! — I  am 

bound 

By  the  soft  touch  of  fingers  light  as  leaves : 
I  drag  my  face  aside,  but  at  the  sound 


Of  her  low  voice  I  turn — and  she  perceives 
The  cloud  of  Rome  upon  my  face,  and  round 

My  neck  she  twines  her  odorous  arms  and 

grieves, 

Shedding  upon  a  heart  as  soft  as  they 
Tears  'tis  a  hero's  task  to  kiss  away  1 

And  then  she  loosens  from  me,  trembling 

still 
Like  a  bright  throbbing  robe,  and  bids 

me  '  go  ! ' — 

When  pearly  tears  her  drooping  eyelids  fill, 
And  her  swart  beauty  whitens  into  snow  ; 
And  lost  to  use  of  life  and  hope  and  will, 

I  gaze  upon  her  with  a  warrior's  woe, 
And  turn,  and  watch  her  sidelong  in  annoy — 
Then  snatch  her  to  me,  flush'd  with  shame 
and  joy ! 

Once  more,  O  Rome  !  I  would  be  son  of 
thine— 

This  constant  prayer  my  chain'd  soul  ever 

saith— 
I  thirst  for  honourable  end— I  pine 

Not  thus  to  kiss  away  my  mortal  breath. 
But  comfort  such  as  this  may  not  be  mine — 

I  cannot  even  die  a  Roman  death  : 
I  seek  a  Roman's  grave,  a  Roman's  rest — 
But,  dying,  I  would  die  upon  her  breast ! 


XVII. 

FINE  WEATHER  ON  THE 
DIGENTIA. 

HORATIUS  COGITABUNDUS. 
I. 

FAVONIUS  changes  with  sunny  kisses 
The  spring's  ice-fetters  to  bands  of  flowers, 

And  the  delicate  Graces,  those  thin-skinn'd 

Misses, 

Are  beginning  to  dance  with  the  rosy 
Hours  ; 

The  Dryades,  feeling  the  breeze  on  their 
bosoms, 

Thro1  tuby  branches  are  blowing  out  blos- 
soms; 

The  naked  Naiad  of  every  pool, 

Lest  the  sunshine  should  drive  her  to  playing 
the  fool, 

Lies  full  length  in  the  water  and  keeps  her- 
self cool ; 

F 


66 


UNDERTONES. 


Pan  is  piping  afar,  'mid  the  trees, 

His  ditty  dies  on  the  dying  breeze, 

While  a  wood-nymph  leaneth  her  head  on 

his  knees, 
In  a  dream,  in  a  dream,  with  her  wild  eyes 

glistening, 

Her  bosom  throbbing,  her  whole  soul  list- 
ening ! 

In  fact,  'tis  the  season  of  billing  and  cooing, 
Amorous  flying  and  fond  pursuing, 
Kissing,  and  pressing,  and  mischief-doing  ; 
And  pleasant  it  is  to  take  one's  tipple 
In  the  mild  warm  breath  of  the  spicy  South, 
And  deftly  to  fasten  one's  lips  to  the  mouth 
Of  a  flasket  warmer  than  Venus'  nipple  ! 
Pleasant,  pleasant,  at  this  the  season 
When  folly  is  reason  and  reason  treason, 
When  nought  is  so  powerful  near  or  far 
As  the  palpitating 
Titillating 
Twinkle,  twinkle,  of  the  Cyprian  star ! 


But  what  has  a  shaky  quaky  fellow, 
Full  of  the  sunshine  but  over-mellow, 
To  do  with  the  beautiful  Lesbian  Queen, 
The  pink-eyed  precious  with  locks  of  yellow, 
The  goddess  of  twenty  and  sweet  eighteen, 
Whose  double  conquest  o'er  Pride  and  Spleen 
In  the  Greek  King's  bed  put  a  viper  green 
And  darken' d  the  seas  with  the  Grecian  force? 

Nothing,  of  course  ! 
Well,  even  I  have  of  joy  my  measure 
And  can  welcome  the  newborn  Adonis  with 

pleasure  ; 

For  since  at  Philippi,  worst  of  scrapes, 
I  saved  my  skin  for  the  good  of  the  nation, 
And  made  my  pious  asseveration 
To  scorn  ambition  and  cultivate  grapes, 
I've  found  by  a  curious  convolution 
Of  physical  ailments  and  heavenly  stars, 
And  of  wisdom  wean'd  on  the  blood -milk 

of  Mars, 

That  my  pluck  is  surpass' d  by  my  elocution — 
And  learnt,  in  fine, 
That  rosy  wine 

And  sunshine  agree  with  my  constitution  ! 

(Dibit.} 
3- 

Pleasant  it  is,  I  say,  to  sit  here, 
Just  in  the  sunshine  without  the  threshold, 
And,  with  fond  fingers  and  lips,  caress  old 
Bacchus'  bottle,  the  source  of  wit,  here  I 


Drowsily  hum  the  honey-bees, 
Drowsily  murmur  the  birds  in  the  trees, 
Drowsily  drops  the  spicy  breeze, 
Drowsily  I  sit  at  mine  ease. 


An  idle  life  is  the  life  for  me, — 

Idleness  spiced  by  philosophy  ! 

I  care  not  a  fig  for  the  cares  of  business, 

Politics  fill  me  with  doubt  and  dizziness, 

Pomps  and  triumphs  are  simply  a  bore  to 

me, 

Crude  ambition  will  come  no  more  to  me, 
I  hate  the  vulgar  popular  cattle, 
And  I  modestly  blush  at  the  mention  of 

battle. 

No  ! — Here  is  my  humble  definition 
Of  a  perfectly  happy  and  virtuous  condition  : 
A  few  fat  acres  aroundabout, 

To  give  one  a  sense  of  possession  ;  a  few 
Servants  to  pour  the  sweet  Massic  out ; 

Plenty  to  eat  and  nothing  to  do  ; 
A  feeling  of  cozy  and  proud  virility  ; 
A  few  stray  pence  ; — 
And  the  tiniest  sense 
Of  self-conserving  responsibility  1 


For,  what  is  Life  ? — or,  rather  ask  here, 

What  is  that  fountain  of  music  and  motion 
We  call  th  •  Soul  ?— As  I  sit  and  bask  here, 
I  confess  that  I  haven'ttheslightestnotion. 
Yet  Plato  calls  it  eternal,  telling 
How  its  original  lofty  dwelling 
Was  among  the  stars,  till,  fairly  repining 
At  eternally  turning  a  pivot  and  shining, 

Heaven  it  quitted 

To  dwell  unpitied 

In  a  fleshly  mansion  of  wining  and  whining; 
Aristotle,  I  don't  know  why, 
Believes  that,  born  up  above  in  the  sky 
The  moment  that  Body  is  born  on  the  earth, 
'Tis  married  to  Body  that  moment  of  birth  ; 
Hippo  and  others,    whose  heads  were  a 

muddle, 

Affirm  'tis  compounded  of  water — puddle  ! 
Fire,  not  a  few,  with  Democritus,  swear  ; 
While  others — chameleons — reduce  it  to  Air; 
Water  and  fire,  cries  Hippocrates  ! 
No,  water  and  earth,  cries  Xenophancs  ! 
Earth  and  fire,  cries  Parmenides  ! 
Stop  !  cries  Empedocles, — all  of  these  ! 


FINE    WEATHER    ON  THE   DIGENTIA. 


Ennius  follow'd  Pythagoras,  thinking 
The  transmigration  of  spirits  a  truth  ; — 
A  doctrine  I  choose  to  apply  in  sooth 
To  the  spirit  that  lies  in  the  wine  I'm  drink- 
ing ; 

Speculation,  muddle,  trouble, 
Some  see  obliquely,  others  double, 
While  under  their  noses, 
Which  smell  not  the  roses, 
Truth  placidly  bursts  like  a  spangled  bubble. 

6. 

Altogether,  they  puzzle  me  quite, 
They  all  seem  wrong  and  they  all  seem  right. 
The  puzzle  remains  an  unsatisfied  question  ; 
But  Epicurus  has  flatly  tried 
To  prove  that  the  soul  is  closely  allied 
To  wine,  and  sunshine,  and  good  digestion. 
For  without  any  prosing,  head-racking,  or 

preaching, 

That's  the  construction  I  put  on  his  teaching! 
'Tis  simple :  the  Soul  and  the  Body  are  one, 
Like  the  Sun  itself  and  the  light  of  the  Sun, 
Born  to  change  with  all  other  creations, 
Homunculi,  qualities,  emanations, 
To  pass  thro'  wondrous  and  strange  grada- 
tions ; 

And  if  this  be  the  case,  our  best  resource 
Is  to  make  the  most  of  our  time,  of  course, 
Nor  grumble  and  question  till  hoary  and 

hoarse. 

And  I  slightly  improve  upon  P'picurus, 
Who  shirk'd  good  living,  as  some  assure  us, 
And  assert,  from  experience  long  and  rare, 
That  body  and  soul  can  be  perfectly  snug, 
With  sunshine,  fresh  air, 
And  no  physical  care, 
In  a  garden  that  never  requires  to  be  dug. 


I,  Quintus  Horatius  Flaccus,  am  learning 

From  the  tuneful  stars  in  my  zenith  turning, 

From   my    bachelorhood,    which    is    wide 

awake, 

That  the  sum  of  good  is  a  life  of  ease, 
A  friend  or  two,  if  the  humour  please, 

And  not  a  tie  it  would  pain  you  to  break. 

Call  me  selfish,  indolent,  vain, 

But  I  don't  and  won't  see  the  virtue  of  pain, 

Be  it  of  body  or  be  it  of  brain  ; 

Philippi  finish'd  my  education, 

For  it  taught  me  the  doctrine  of  self-preser- 


I  hate  the  barking  of  Scylla's  dogs, 

Round  Charybdis  your  sailor  may  spin, 

but  not  I : — 

In  short,  I  am  one  of  those  excellent  hogs 
That  grunt  in  the  Grecian  epicure's  sty. 
Day  by  day,  my  delight  has  grown  wider 
Since  I  learnt  that  wine  is  a  natural  good, 
And  the  stubborn  donkey  called  Fortitude 
Has  a  knack  of  upsetting  the  bile  of  its  rider. 
All  creeds  that  vex  one  are  mere  vexation  ; 
But  I  firmly  believe,  and  no  man  dare  doubt 

me, 

In  Massic  taken  in  moderation, 
And  I  like  to  dwell  where  no  fools  can  flout 

me — 

Sans  physical  care, 
In  the  sunny  air, 
And  to  sing — when  I  feel  the  fresh  world 

about  me  ! 

(Bibit.} 
8. 

Bearwitness,  Flower! — One's  sense  perceives 
The  rich  sap  lying  within  your  leaves, 
Which  lusciously  swoon  to  a  soft  blood-red 
As  the  sunlight  woos  them  from  overhead  ! 
Now,  here  is  a  parallel  worth  inspection 
Of  body  and  blood  in  perfect  connexion 
With  what  some  call  Soul,   that  obscure 

abstraction 

Which  I  have  proved  to  my  satisfaction 
To  be  Body  in  lesser  or  greater  perfection. 
The  perfect  parts  of  the  perfect  flower 
Were  nourish'd  by  sunshine  for  many  an 

hour, 
Till  the  sunshine  within  them  o'erflowing — 

hence 

The  juice  whose  odorous  quintessence, 
Though  sweetly  expressing  the  parts  and  the 

whole, 

Is  simply  a  part  of  the  whole,  and  still 
Inseparate  from  the  general  will. 
The  Flower  is  the  Body,  the  Scent  is  the 

Soul! 

See  !     I  press  a  thorn  in  the  milky  stalk : 
The  small  thing  droops  o'er  the  garden  walk, 
The  soft  leaves  shiver,  the  sap  runs  dry, 
And  never  more  will  the  flower's  mild  eye 
Drink  the  breath  of  the  moon — it  will  linger, 

and  die. 
But  the  scent  of  the  flower,  some  would  cry, 

is  the  sweeter  ; 
True,  but  the  scent,  every  moment,  grows 

less, 

F  2 


68 


UNDERTONES. 


And,  further  observing,  they  would  con- 
fess, 
That  the  flower,  as  a  flower,  is  the  incom- 

pleter ! 

Well,  between  my  fingers  I  sharpl    press 
The  delicate  leaves,  and  thro'  every  vein 
The  perfect  anatomy  shrinks  with  pain, 
And  the  flower  with  its  odorous  quint- 
essence 

Will  never,  'tis  clear,  be  perfection  again. 
Bah  !   I  pluck  it,  I  pluck  it,  and  cast  it 

hence, 

As  Death  plucks  humanity  body  and  brain  ! 
But  the  odour  has  not  yet  flown,  you  cry, 
It  sweetens  the  air,  tho'  the  flower  doth  die  ! 
Of  course ;  and  the  feelers  and  stem  and 

leaves, 
And  the  sap  and  the  odour  it  interweaves, 

No  longer  perfect  and  gastronomic, 
Are  in  common  resolving  themselves,  one 

perceives, 

Back  to  first  principles — say  atomic  ; 
And  whatever  destination  your  fine 
Hard-headed  philosophers  choose  to  assign 
To  the  several  parts,  they  are  reft  of  their 

power, 
And,  so  far  as  concerns  its  true  functions 

— to  scent 
The  soft  air,  and  look  fair — and  its  first 

sweet  intent, 

'Tis  clear  that  the  whole  is  no  longer  a 
Flower. 


Take  that  bulky  and  truly  delectable  whole, 

The  egotistic  disciple  of  Bacchus, 
With  small  hare's-eyes  and  gray  hairs  on  his 

poll, 

Myself— good  Quintus  Horatius  Flaccus  ! 
There's  a  Body  !     There's  a  Soul ! 
Many  a  year,  over  Rome's  dominions, 
Has  he  vaunted  his  Epicurean  opinions  : 
He  may  be  wrong,  he  may  be  right, 
So  he  roars  his  creed  in  no  mad  heroics, — 
Since  down  in  the  grave,  where  all  creeds 

unite 
Even  Epicureans  are  changed  to  Stoics. 

(Blbit.} 
10. 
Humph,   the  grave ! — not   the  pleasantest 

prospect,  affirms 

This  quiet  old  heart  starting  up  with  a 
beat- 


Well,  'tis  rather  hard  that  liquor  so  sweet 

Goes  simply  to  flavour  a  meal  for  worms  ! 

After  all,  I'm  a  sensible  man, 

To  render  my  span 

As  happy  and  easeful  as  ever  I  can. 

To-morrow  may  mingle,  who  knows,  who 

knows, 
The  Life  that  is  Dream  with  the  Death 

that  is  Sleep, 

And  the  grass  that  covers  my  last  repose 
May  make  a  sward  where  the  lambkins 

leap 

Round  a  mild-eyed  mellifluous  musical  boy 
Who  pipes  to  his  flock  in  a  pastoral  joy, 
While  the  sun  that  is  shining  upon  him  there 
Draws  silver  threads  thro'  his  curly  hair, 
And  Time  with  long  shadows  stalks  past 

the  spot, 

And  the  Hours  pass  by,  and  he  sees  them  not! 
Instead  of  moping  and  idly  rueing  it, 
Now,  this  is  the  pleasantest  way  of  viewing 

it!— 

To  think,  when  all  is  over  and  done, 
Of  insensately  feeling  one's  way  to  the  sun, 
Of  being  a  part  of  the  verdure  that  chases 
The  mild  west-wind  into  shady  places, 
While  one' sliver,  warming  the  roots  of  a  tree, 
Creeps  upward  and  flutters  delectably 
In  the  leaves  that  tremble  and  sigh  and  sing, 
And  the  breath  bubbles  up  in  a  daisy  ring, 
And  the  heart,  mingling  strangely  with  rains 

and  snows, 
Bleeds  up  thro'  the  turf  in  the  blood  of  a  rose. 


Which  reminds  me,  here,  that  the  simile 

drawn 
From  the  flower  that  is  withering  on  the 

lawn, 

May,  by  a  stretch  of  the  thought,  apply 
To  the  universe — ocean,  earth,  air,  and  sky  ; 
And  dividing  the  whole  into  infinite  less, 
First  principles,  atomies  numberless, 
We  find  that  the  sum  of  the  universe  strange 
Suffers  continual  mystical  change  ; 
While  the  parts  of  the  whole,   tho'   their 

compounds  range 

Thro'  all  combinations  from  men  down  to 
i          daisies, 

Are  eternal,  unchangeable,  suffer  no  phases. 
So  that  Death,  to  the  dullest  of  heads  so 

unsightly, 
Is  (here  I  improve  Epicurus  slightly) 


FINE    WEATHER   ON  THE  DIGENTIA. 


69 


Is  but  the  period  of  dissolution 

Into  some  untraceable  constitution 

Of  the  several  parts  of  the  Body  and  Soul, — 

And  the  total  extinction  of  Man  as  a  whole. 

As  to  Time — mere  abstraction  !    With  even 

motion 

Like  waves  that  gathering  foamy  speech 
Grow  duskily  up  on  a  moonlit  beach, 
And  seem  to  increase  the  huge  bulk  of  the 

ocean, 

Hours  roll  upon  hours  in  the  measureless  sea 
Of  eternity : 

Never  ceasing,  they  seem  increasing  ; 
But  the  parts  of  the  Infinite,  changing  never, 
Increase  not,  tho  changing,  the  Whole,  the 

For  Ever. 

Time  ?    Call  it  a  compound,  if  you  please, 
A  divisible  drop  in  eternal  seas, 
An  abstract  figure,  by  which  we  men 
Try  to  count  our  sensations  again  and  again, 
And   then  you   will  know,   perceiving  we 

must 

Nourish  some  compound  with  dust  of  dust, 
And  seeing  how  short  our  sensations  and 

powers, 

Why  I  am  one, 
Who  sits  in  the  sun, 

Whose  Time  is  no  limited  number  of  hours, 
But  wine  ever-present,  in  nectarine  showers. 


O  Mutability,  dread  abstraction, 

Let  me  be  wise  in  the  satisfaction 

Of  my  moderate  needs  in  a  half-inaction  ! 

While  Propertius  grows  love-sick  and  weary 

and  wan, 
While  thou,  Virgil,  singest  of  arms  and  the 

man, 

While  assassins  on  Caesar  sharpen  their  eyes, 
While  Agrippa  stands  grimly  on  blood- 
stained decks, 

While  Maecenas  flirts  with  the  female  sex, 
Teach  me  to  sport  and  philosophize  1 
O  Mutability,  lasting  ever, 
Changing  ever,  yet  changing  never, 
Teach  me,    O  teach    me,    and  make  me 

wise  ! — 

In  the  dreadful  depth  of  thy  eyeballs  dumb, 
Strange  meanings  flutter  and    pass    to 

nought, 

And  beautiful  images  fade  as  they  come, 
Thro'  an  under-trouble  of  shady  thought ! 


Yonder,  yonder,  the  River  doth  run, 

From  sun  to  shade,  and  from  shade  to  sun, 
Shaking  the  lilies  to  seed  as  it  flows, 
Under  the  willow-trees  taking  a  doze, 

And  waking  up  in  a  flutter  of  fun  ! 

Could  you  look  at  the  leaves  of  yonder  tree  ! 

The  wind  is  stirring  them  as  the  sun  is  stir- 
ring me  ! 

The  woolly  clouds  move  quiet  and  slow, 
In  the  pale  blue  calm  of  the  tranquil  skies, 

And  their  shades  that  run  on  the  grass  below 
Leave  purple  dreams  in  the  violet's  eyes  ! 

The  vine  droops  over  my  head  with  bright 
Clusters  of  purple  and  green — the  rose 
Breaks  her  heart  on  the  air — and  the 
orange  glows 

Like  golden  lamps  in  an  emerald  night.  * 

While  I  sit,  with  the  stain .  of  the  wine  on 
my  lip, 

Shall  nature  and  I  part  fellowship  ? 

No,  by  Bacchus  !   This  view  from  the  thres- 
hold of  home 

Is  as  glad   to  the   core,  and  as  sorrow- 
despising, 

As  Aphrodite  when  fresh  from  the  foam 

That  still  on  her  bosom  was  falling  and 
rising, 

While  the  sunshine  crept  thro'  her  briny 
hair 

And  mingled  itself  with  the  shadows  there, 

And  her  deepening  eyes  drank  their  azure 
from  air, 

And  she  blush 'd  a  new  beauty  surpassingly 
fair! 

14. 

'Tis  absurd  to  tell  me  to  ruffle  a  feather, 
Because  there  may  soon  be  a  change  of 

weather. 
When  the  Dog-Star  foams,  I  will  lie  in  the 

shade, 
And  watch  the  white  sun  thro'  an  emerald 

glade  ; 

When  winter  murmurs  with  rain  and  storm, 
I  will  watch  my  hearth  smile  to  itself,  and 

keep  warm  ; 

And  for  Death,  who  having  fulfilled  his  task 
Leaves  his  deputy  Silence  in  houses  of 

mourning, — 

*  Golden  lamps  in  a  green  night.— ANDREW 
MARVEL. 


UNDERTONES. 


Well,  I  hope  he  no  troublesome  questions 

will  ask, 
But  knock  me  down,  like  an  ox,  without 

warning. 
Like  the  world,  I  most  solemnly  promise 

devotion 
To  pleasure  commingled  of  light,  music, 

motion. 

I  like  (as  I  said)  to  sit  here  in  my  mirth, 
To  be  part  of  the  joy  of  the  sweet-smelling 

earth, 
To  feel  the  blood  blush  like  a  flower  with  its 

glee, 

To  sing  like  a  bird,  to  be  stirr'd  like  a  tree, 
Drowsily,  drowsily,  sit  at  mine  ease, 
While  the  odd  rhymes  buzz  in  my  brain  like 

bees, 

And  over  my  wine-cup  to  chirp  and  to  nod, 
Ay  to  sit— till  I  fall 
Like  that  peach  from  the  wall— 
Self-sufficient,  serene,  happy-eyed, — like  a 

GOD!  (Bibit.) 

IS- 

Ay,  crop  the  corn  with  the  crooked  sickle, 

Sow  harvest  early  and  reap  too  late, 
Prove  Fortune  friendly  or  false  or  fickle, 
Blunder  and  bother  with  aching  pate, 
Attempting  to  conquer  chance  or  fate, 
Struggle,  speculate,  dig,  and  bleed, 
Reap  the  whirlwind  of  Venus'  seed, 

0  senseless,  impotent  human  breed  ! 
What  avails  !  what  avails !    Were  ye  less 

intent 
On  your  raking  and  digging,  perchance 

ye'd  behold 

The  fleecy  vapours  above  you  roll'd 
Round  the  dozing  Deities  dead  to  strife, 
With  their  mild  great  eyes  on  each  other  bent 
Enchanging  a  wisdom  indifferent 
To  the  native  honours  of  death  and  life. 
Sober  truths  of  a  pleasure  divine 
Keep  them  supine ! 

The  grand  lazy  fellows  have  nothing  to  do 
With  the  hubble  and  trouble  of  me  or  of  you, 
The  stars  break  around  them  in  silver  foam, 
And  they  calmly  amuse  themselves,  some- 
times, by  stealing 
A  peep  at  us  pigmies,  with  much  the  same 

feeling 

With  which,  from  the  candour  and  quiet  of 
home, 

1  glance  at  the  strife  of  political  Rome. 


Serene,  happy-eyed,  self-sufficient,  they  rest 
On  the  hill  where  the  blue  sky  is  leaning  her 

breast : — 
Jove  seated  supreme  in  the  midst,  at  his  side 

Apollo  the  Sun  and  Selene  the  Moon, 
Juno  half  dozing,  her  foot  of  pride 
On  the  neck  of  Venus  the  drowsy-eyed, 

And  Pallas  humming  the  spheric  tune. 


16. 

Flash  ! 

Lightning,    I    swear ! — there's    a    tempest 
brewing  ! 

Crash  ! 

Thunder,  too— swift-footed  lightning  pur- 
suing ! 

The  leaves  are  troubled,  the  winds  drop 
dead, 

The  air  grows  ruminant  overhead — 

Splash  ! 

That  great  round  drop  fell  pat  on  my  nose. 

Flash  !  crash  !  splash  !  — 

I  must  run  for  it,  I  suppose. 

O    what    a    flashing    and     crashing    and 

splashing, 
The  earth  is  rocking,  the  skies  are  riven — 

Jove  in  a  passion,  in  god-like  fashion, 
Is  breaking  the  crystal  urns  of  heaven. 


XVIII. 

FINE  WEATHER   BY  BAIAE. 

VIRGIL  TO  HORACE. 

i. 

SWEET  is  soft  slumber,  Horace,  after  toil, 
To  him  who  holds  the  glebe  and  ploughs 

the  fruitful  soil, 
Sweet  to  salt-blooded  mariners,  on  decks 

washed  red  with  storm, 
Deep  sleep  wherein  past  tempest  and  green 

waves 

Make  shadows  multiform ; 


Sweet  'tis  to  Cassar,  when  the  red  star,  grown 
Swart  with  war's  dust,  doth  fade,  to  loll 

upon  a  throne 
Dispensing  gifts,  while  on  his  lips  a  crafty 

half-smile  dies, 

And  the  soft  whispers  of  approving  Rome 
Fan  his  half-closed  eyes  I 


FINE    WEATHER  BY  BAIAE. 


Sweet  to  Tibullus,  sick  and  out  of  tune, 
What  time  his  elegies  like  wolves  howl  at 

the  moon, 
Comes  Pity  loos'ning  Delia's  zone  as  breezes 

part  a  cloud  ; 
And  sweet  to  thee  a  wine-cup  rough  with 

sleep, 

After  the  tawny  crowd. 


And  further,  sweetly  comes  a  scroll  from  thee, 
To  Virgil  where  he  dwells  at  Baiae  near  the 

sea — 
For,  sick  with  servile  snakes  of  state  that 

twine  round  Caesar's  foot, 
He  welcomes  thy  moist  greeting  and  thy 

thought 

Poetically  put. 


Such  alternation  of  unrest  and  rest, 

All  fitful  peace  and  passion  of  the  yearning 

breast, 
Deepen  the  meanings  flashing  swift  in  Joy's 

pink-lidded  eyne, 

And  help  the  Hours  to  juggle  with  the  fruits 
Of  easy  creeds  like  thine. 


The  time-glass  runs,  the  seasons  come  and 

go. 
After  the  rain,  the  flowers,  after  the  flowers, 

the  snow  ; 
This  Hour  is  pale  and  olive-crown'd,  that 

splash'd  with  rebel-mud  - 
This,  flusht  to  gaze  on  Caesar's  laurell'd 

brows, 
That,  drunk  with  Caesar's  blood  ! 


Shall  merest  mortal  man  with  drowsy  nod 
Sit  under  purple  vine  and  doze  and  ape  the 

god? 
Wave  down  the  everlasting  strife  of  earth 

and  air  and  sea  ? 

And,  like  a  full-fed  fruit  that  gorges  light, 
Grow  rotten  on  the  tree  ? 

8. 
Leave  the  grand  mental  war  that  mortals 

keep? 
Eat  the  fat  ears  of  corn,  yet  neither  sow  nor 

reap? 


Loll  in  the  sunshine,  sipping  sweets,  what 

time  the  din  of  fights 
Quenches  the  wind  round  Troy,  and  very 

gods 

Feel  dizzy  on  their  heights  ? 

9- 
Nay,  friend !— For  such  a  man  each  hour 

supplies 
Portents  that  mock  his  ease,   affright  his 

languid  eyes : 
The  very  elements  are  leagued  to  goad  him 

blood  and  brain, 

The  very  Sun  sows  drouth  within  his  throat 
Until  it  raves  for  rain  ! 

10. 

Methinks  I  see  thee  sitting  in  the  sun, 
Whose  kisses  melt  thy  crusty  wrinkles  one 

by  one  : 
Thy  lips  droop  darkly  with   a   worm  of 

thought,  half  sad,  half  wroth, 
Which  stirs  the  chrysalis  mouth,  then,  ripe 

with  wine, 

Bursts  like  a  golden  moth. 


Unfaith  is  with  thee,  Horace.    Sun  and  wifid 

Disturb  the  tranquil  currents  of  thy  he/irt 
and  mind  ; 

In  midst  of  Joy,  comes  pigmy  doubt,  prick- 
pricking  like  a  flea, 

Till,  wide  awake,  you  rack  your  brains  to 
prove 
Your  perfect  bliss  to  me. 


O  better  far,  if  Man  would  climb,  to  range 
Thro'  sun  and  thunder-storm  tempestuous 

paths  of  change, 
To  mingle  with  the  motion  huge  of  earth 

and  air  and  main, 

And  lastly,  fall  upon  a  bed  of  flowers 
When  wearied  down  by  pain. 


Deep,  deep,  within  Man's  elemental  parts— 
Earth,  water,  fire,  and  air  that  mix  in  human 

hearts,  — 
Subsists   Unrest  that    seeketh    Rest,    and 

flashes  into  gleams 
That  haunt  the  soul  to  action,  and  by  night 

Disturb  our  sleep  with  dreams. 


UNDERTONES. 


iy  fingers 


14. 

And  thus  we  fashion  with  a  piteous  will 
The  gods  in  drowsy  mildness  seated  on  a  hill, 
The  day  before  them  evermore,  the  starry 

night  behind,  — 
Inheritors  of  the  divine  repose 
We  seek  and  cannot  find. 

IS- 
Woe,  woe,  to  him,  who  craving  that  calm 

boon 
Falleth  to  sleep  on  beds  of  poppy  flowers 

too  soon  ! 
The  elements  shall  hem  him  in  and  fright 

his  shrieking  soul, 

And,  since  he  asks  for  light,  Lightning  itself 
Shall  scorch  his  eyes  to  coal  ! 

16. 

My  Horace  !  —  I  am  here  beside  the  deep, 
Weaving  at  will  this  verse  for  Memory  to 

keep  : 
I  share  the  sunshine  with  my  friend,  and 

like  a  lizard  bask  ; 

But  I,  friend,  doubt  this  summer  joy,  —  and 
you 

Shall  answer  what  I  ask.  — 


Bluff  March  has  blown  his  clarion  out  of 

tune, 
Gone  is  the  blue-edged  sickle  of  the  April 

moon  ; 
Faded  hath  fretful  May  behind  a  tremulous 

veil  of  rain,  — 
But  I  would  the  boisterous  season  of  the 

winds 
And  snows  were  here  again  ! 

18. 

For  I  am  kneeling  on  the  white  sea-sand, 
Letting  the  cold  soft  waves  creep  up  and 

kiss  my  hand  ; 
A  golden  glare  of  sunshine  fills  the  blue  air 

at  my  back, 

And  swims  between  the  meadows  and  the 
skies, 

Leaving  the  meadows  black. 

19. 

All  is  as  still  and  beautiful  as  sleep  : 
Nay,  all  is  sleep  —  the  quiet  air,  the  azure 
deep  ; 


The  cool  blue  waves  creep  thro'  my  fingers 

with  a  silver  gleam, 
As,  lost  in  utter  calm,  I  neither  think 
Nor  act,  but  only  dream. 

20. 

This  is  the  poetry  of  Heart's  repose, 
For  which  my  spirit  yearn'd  thro'  drifting 

winds  and  snows — 
Only  the  tingling  coolness  on  my  hand  seems 

part  akin 

To  that  bleak  winter  warring  when   the 
dream 

Of  peace  arose  within. 

21. 

What  time  I  dream'd  of  this,  the  winds,  cast 

free, 
Swoop'd  eagle-like  and  tore  the  white  bowels 

of  the  sea  ; 
The  winter  tempest  moved  above,  and  storm 

on  storm  did  frown  ; — 
I  saw  the  awful  Sea  bound  up  in  cloud 
And  then  torn  hugely  down. 


Within  my  blood  arose  the  wild  commo- 
tion, 

My  soul  was  battling  abroad  with  winds  and 
ocean ; 

But  in  the  centre  of  the  wrath,  all  nature, 
sea  and  sky, 

Call'd  out  aloud  for  peace  divine  as  this, 
And  lo,  I  join'd  the  cry. 

23- 
And  calm  has  come,  and  June  is  on  the 

deep, 
The  winds  are  nested,  and  the  earth  takes 

mellow  sleep ; 
Yet,  friend,  my  soul,  though  husht  in  awe, 

feels  peace  so  still  is  pain, — 
And  the  monotonous  yearning  voice  within 
Calls  out  for  war  again  I 

24. 

For  hark  !  into  my  dream  of  golden  ease 
Breaketh  the  hollow  murmur  of  untroubled 

seas  ; 
And  behold,  my  blood  awakens  with  a  thrill 

and  sinks  and  swells, 
As  when  low  breezes  die  and  rise  again 
On  beds  of  asphodels. 


FINE   WEATHER  BY  BAIAE-TPIE   SWAN-SONG   OF  APOLLO.     73 


25- 

Ay,  now,  when  all  is  placid  as  a  star, 
My  soul  in  incompleteness  longs  for  active 

war; 

Amid  its  utter  happiness,  it  sighs  imperfectly 
In  answer  to  the  beautiful  unrest 
Within  the  sleeping  sea. 

26. 

Unsatisfied,  I  hunger  on  the  land, 
Only  subdued  by  this  bright  water  on  my 

hand  ; 
The  beating  heart  within  my  breast   for 

louder  utterance  yearns — 
I  listen,  and  the  sympathetic  sea 
Its  endless  moan  returns. 

27. 
Quiet,     monotonous,     breathless,     almost 

drown"  d, 
Inaudibly  audible,  felt  scarce  heard,  cometh 

the  sound, 
Monotonous,  so  monotonous,  but  oh  !  so 

sweet,  so  sweet, 
When  my  hid  heart  is  throbbing  forth  a 

voice, 
And  the  two  voices  meet. 

28. 
The  void   within    the  calm   for  which   I 

yearned, 

Until    this    moment  was    imperfectly  dis- 
cerned ; 
But  now  I  feel  to  the  roots  of  life  an  inner 

melody, 

That  harmonises  my  unquiet  heart 
With  the  unquiet  sea. 

29. 

Hear  I  the  crawling  movements  of  the  main  ? 
Or  hear  I  dim  heart-echoes  dying  in  the 

brain  ? 
Is  there  but  one  impatient  moan,  and  is  it 

of  the  sea  ? 

And,    if   two    voices    speak,    which  voice 
belongs 
To  ocean,  which  to  me? 

30. 
The  sounds  have  mingled  into  some  faint 

whole, 
Inseparate,  trembling  o'er  the  fibres  of  my 

soul ; 


And  the  cool  waves  have  a  magic  all  my 

swooning  blood  to  quell ; 
The  sea  glides  thro'  and  thro'  me,  and  my 

soul 

Keeps  sea-sound  like  a  shell. 

3*. 

Ah,  the  monotonous  music  in  my  soul, 
Enlarging  like  the  waves,  murmuring  with- 
out control ! — 
Is  it  that  changeful  nature  can  rest  not  night 

nor  day  ? 

And  is  the  music  born  of  this  lorn  Man, 
Or  Ocean, — Horace,  say  ? 

32- 

Is  there  a  climbing  element  in  life 
Which  is  at  war  with  rest,  alternates  strife 

with  strife, 
Whereby  we  reach  eternal  seas  upon  whose 

shores  unstirr'd 

Ev'n  Joy  can  sleep, — because  no  moan  like 
this 
Within  those  waves  is  heard  ? 


XIX. 
THE  SWAN-SONG  OF  APOLLO. 


O  LYRE  !  O  Lyre  ! 
Strung  with  celestial  fire  ! 
Thou  living  soul  of  sound  that  answereth 
These  fingers  that  have  troubled  thee  so 

long, 
With  passion,  and  with  music,  and  with 

breath 

Of  melancholy  song,— 
Answer,  answer,  answer  me, 
With  thy  withering  melody  ! 
For  the  earth  is  old  and  strange 
Mysteries  are  working  change, 
And  the  Dead  who  slumber' d  deep 
Startle  troubled  from  their  sleep, 
And  the  ancient  gods  divine, 
Pale  and  haggard  o'er  their  wine, 
Fade  in  their  ghastly  banquet-halls,  with 
large  eyes  fixed  on  mine  1 


Ah  me  !  ah  me  ! 

The  earth  and  air  and  sea 


74 


UNDERTONES. 


Are  shaken  ;  and  the  great  pale  gods  sit  still, 
The    roseate    mists    around    them    roll 
away : — 

Lo  !     Hebe  listens  in  the  act  to  fill, 
And  groweth  wan  and  gray  ; 
On  the  banquet-table  spread, 
Fruits  and  flowers  grow  sick  and  dead, 
Nectar  cold  in  every  cup 
Gleams  to  blood  and  withers  up  ; 
Aphrodite*  breathes  a  charm, 
Gripping  Pallas'  bronzed  arm  ; 
Zeus  the  Father  clenches  teeth, 
While  his  cloud-throne  shakes  beneath  ; 

The  passion-flower  in  Here's  hair  melts  in  a 
snowy  wreath  ! 


Ah,  woe  !  ah,  woe  ! 

One  climbeth  from  below, — 
A  mortal  shape  with  pallid  smile  divine, 
Bearing  a  heavy  Cross  and  crown'd  with 

thorn, — 
His  brow  is  moist  with  blood,  his  strange 

sweet  eyne 
Look  piteous  and  forlorn  : 

Hark,  O  hark  !  his  cold  foot-fall 

Breaks  upon  the  banquet-hall ! 

God  and  goddess  start  to  hear, 

Earth,  air,  ocean,  moan  in  fear ; 

Shadows  of  the  Cross  and  Him 

Dark  the  banquet-table  dim, 

Silent  sit  the  gods  divine, 

Old  and  haggard  over  wine, 
And  slowly  to  thy  song  they  fade,  with  large 
eyes  fixed  on  mine  ! 

4- 

O  Lyre  !     O  Lyre  ! 
Thy  strings  of  golden  fire 
Fade  to  their  fading,  and  the  hand  is  chill 
That  touches  thee  ;  the  great  bright  brow 

grows  gray— 

I  faint,  I  wither,  while  that  conclave  still 
Dies  wearily  away  ! 
Ah,  the  prophecy  of  old 
Sung  by  us  to  smilers  cold  ! — 
God  and  goddess  droop  and  die, 
Chilly  cold  against  the  sky, 
There  is  change  and  all  is  done, 
Strange  look  moon  and  stars  and  sun  ! 
God  and  goddess  fade,  and  see  ! 
All  their  large  eyes  look  at  me  ! 
While  woe  !  ah,  woe  !  in  dying  song,  I  fade, 
I  fade,  with  thee  ! 


POET'S  EPILOGUE. 
TO   MARY  ON  EARTH. 

1  Simplex  munditiis.' 


So  !  now  the  task  is  ended  ;  and  to-night, 
Sick,  impotent,  no  longer  soul-sustain'd, 
Withdrawing  eyes  from  that  ideal  height 
Where,  in  low  undertones,    those  Spirits 

plain'd, 

Each  full  of  special  glory  unattain'd,— 
I   turn  on  you,    Sweet-Heart,    my   weary 

sight.— 

Shut  out  the  darkness,  shutting  in  the  light: 
So  !  now  the  task  is  ended.    What  is  gain'd? 


First,  sit  beside  me.     Place  your  hand  in 

mine. 
From  deepest  fountain  of  your  veins  the 

while 

Call  up  your  Soul ;  and  briefly  let  it  shine 
In  those  gray  eyes  with  mildness  feminine. 
Yes,  smile,  Dear  !— you  are  truest  when  you 

smile. 

3- 
My    heart  to-night    is    calm    as   peaceful 

dreams.  — 

Afar  away  the  wind  is  shrill,  the  culver 
Blows  up  and  down  the  moors  with  windy 

gleams, 

The  birch  unlooseneth  her  locks  of  silver 
And  shakes  them  softly  on  the  mountain 

streams, 
And  o'er  the  grave  that  holds  my  David's 

dust 

The  Moon  uplifts  her  empty  dripping  horn : 
Thither  my  fancies  turn,  but  turn  in  trust, 
Not  wholly  sadly,  faithful  though  forlorn. 
For  you,   too,    ove  him,  mourn  his  life's 

quick  fleeting ; 

We  think  of  him  in  common.  Is  it  so? — 
Your  little  hand  has  answer'd,  and  I  know 
His  name  makes  music  in  your  heart's  soft 

beating  ; 
And well,  'tis  something  gain'd  for  him 

and  me — 

Him,  in  his  heaven,  and  me,  in  this  low  spot, 
j  Something  his  eyes  will  see,  and  joy  to  see — 
i  That  you,  too,  love  him,  though  you  knew 

him  not. 


TO  MARY  ON  EARTH. 


75 


Yet  this  is  bitter.     We  were  boy  and  boy, 
Hand  link'd  in  hand  we  dreamt  of  power 

and  fame, 
We  shared  each  other's  sorrow,  pride,  and 

joy. 

To  one  wild  tune  our  swift  blood  went  and 

came, 
Eyes  drank  each  other's  hope  with  flash  of 

flame. 

Then,  side  by  side,  we  clomb  the  hill  of  life, 
We  ranged  thro'  mist  and  mist,  thro'  storm 

and  strife  ; 

But  then, it  is  so  bitter,  now,  to  feel 

That  his  pale  Soul  to  mine  was  so  akin, 
Firm-fix'd  on  goals  we  each  set  forth  to  win, 
So  twinly  conscious  of  the  sweet  Ideal, 
So  wedded  (God  forgive  me  if  I  sin  !) 
That  neither  he,  my  friend,  nor  I  could  steal 
One  glimpse  of  heaven's  divinities — alone, 
And  flushing  seek  his  brother,  and  reveal 
Some  hope,  some  joy,  some  beauty,   else 

unknown ; 
Nor,  bringing  down  his  sunlight  from  the 

Sun, 

Call  sudden  up,  to  light  his  fellow's  face, 
A  smile  as  proud,  as  glad,  as  that  I  trace 
In  your  dear  eyes,  now,  when  my  work  is 

done. 


Love  g.uns  in  giving.     What  had  I  to  give 
Whereof  his  Poet-Soul  was  not  possest  ? 
What  gleams  of  stars  he  knew  not,  fugitive 
As  lightning-flashes,  could  I  manifest  ? 
What  music  fainting  from  a  clearer  air? 
What  lights  of  sunrise  from  beyond  the  grave? 
What  pride  in  knowledge  that  he  could  not 

share  ? — 

Ay,  Mary,  it  is  bitter  ;  for  I  swear 
He  took  with  him,  to  heav'n,  no  wealth  I 

gave. 


No,  Love,  it  is  not  bitter  !     Thoughts  like 

those 

Were  sin  these  songs  I  sing  you  must  adjust. 
Not  bitter,  ah,  not  bitter  ! — God  is  just ; 
^.nd,  seeing  our  one-knowledge,  just  God 

chose, 

3y  one  swift  stroke,  to  part  us.     Far  above 
The  measure  of  my  hope,  my  pride,  my 

love, 


Above  our  seasons,    suns  and  rains  and 

snows, — 

He,  like  an  exhalation,  thus  arose  ; 
Hearing  in  a  diviner  atmosphere 
Music  we  only  see,  when,  dewy  and  dim, 
The  stars  thro'  gulfs  of  azure  darkness  swim, 
Music  we  seem  to  see,  but  cannot  hear. 
But  evermore,  my  Poet,  on  his  height, 
Fills  up  my  Soul  with  sweetness  to  the  brim, 
Rains  influence,  and  warning,  and  delight ; 
And  now,  I  smile  for  pride  and  joy  in  him  ! 


I  said,  Love  gains  by  giving.   And  to  know 
That  I,  who  could  not  glorify  my  Friend, 
Soul  of  my  Soul,  although  I  loved  him  so, 
Have  power  and  strength  and  privilege  to 

lend 

Glimpses  of  heav'n  to  Thee,  of  hope,  of  bliss! 
Power  to  go  heavenward,  pluck  flowers  and 

blend 

Their  hues  in  wreaths  I  give  you  with  a  kiss — 
You,  Love,  who  climb  not  up  the  heights 

at  all ! 

To  think,  to  think,  I  never  could  upcall 
On  his  dead  face,  so  proud  a  smile  as  this  ! 

8. 

Most  just  is  God  :  who  bids  me  not  be  sad 
For  his  dear  sake  whose  name  is  dear  to  thee, 
Who  bids  me  proudly  climb  and  sometimes 

see 

With  joy  a  glimpse  of  him  in  glory  clad  , 
Who,  further,  bids  your  life  be  proud  and 

glad, 

When  I  have  climb' d  and  seen,  for  joy  in  me. 
My  lowly-minded,  gentle-hearted  Love  ! 
I  bring  you  down  his  gifts,  and  am  sustain'd : 
You  watch  and  pray — I  climb — he  stands 

above. 
So,  now  the  task  is  ended,  what  is  gain'd  ? 


This  knowledge.  — Better  in  your  arms  to  rest, 
Better  to  love  you  till  my  heart  should  break, 
Than  pause  to  ask  if  he  who  would  be  blest 
Should  love  for  more  than  his  own  loving's 

sake. 

So  closer,  closer  still ;  for  (while  afar, 
Mile  upon  mile  toward  the  polar  star, 
Now  in  the  autumn  time  our  Poet's  dust 
Sucks  back  thro'  grassy  sods  the  flowers  it 

thrust 


UNDERTONES. 


To  feel  the  summer  on  the  outer  earth) 
I  turn  to  you,  and  on  your  bosom  fall. 
Love  grows  by  giving.    I  have  given  my  all. 
So,  smile — to  show  you  hold  the  gift  of 

worth. 

10. 

Ay,  all  the  thanks  that  I  on  earth  can  render 
To  him  who  sends  me  such  good  news  from 

God, 

Is,  in  due  turn,  to  thy  young  life  to  tender 
Hopes  that  denote,   while  blossoming  in 

splendour, 
Where  an  invisible  Angel's  foot  hath  trode. 


So,  Sweet-Heart,  I  have  given  unto  thee, 
Not  only  such  poor  song  as  here  I  twine, 
But  Hope,  Ambition,  all  of  mine  or  me, 
My  flesh  and  blood,  and  more,  my  soul 

divine. 
Take  all,  take  all !    Ay,  wind  white  arms 

about 
My  neck  and  from  my  breath  draw  bliss  foi 

thine : 
Smile,    Sweet-Heart,    and   be  happy— lest 

thou  doubt 
How  much  the  gift  I  give  thee  makes  thee 

minel 


Idyls  and  Legends  of  Inverburn. 


Fly  to  the  city,  Spirit  of  the  Spring, 
Breathe  softly  on  the  eyes  of  those  who  read, 
And  make  a  gentle  picture  of  the  scene 
Wherein  these  men|and  women  come  and  go  : 
The  clachan  with  its  humming  sound  of  looms, 
The  quaint  old  gables,  roofs  of  turf  and  thatch, 

THE  LOWLAND    VILLAGE. 

SEVEN  pleasant  miles  by  wood,  and  stream, 

and  moor, 
Seven  miles  along  the  country  road  that 

wound 

Uphill  and  downhill  in  a  dusty  line, 
Then  from  the  forehead  of  a  hill,  behold— 
Lying  below  me,  sparkling  ruby-like — 
The  village  ! — quaint  old  gables,   roofs  of 

thatch, 
The  glimmering  spire  thatpeep'd  above  the 

firs, 

The  sunset  lingering  orange-red  on  all, 
And  nearer,  tumbling  thro'  a  mossy  bridge, 
The  river  that  I  knew  !    No  wondrous  peep 
Into  the  faery  land  of  Oberon, 
Its  bowers,  its  glowworm-lighted  colonnades 
Where  pigmy  lovers  wander  two  by  two, 
Could  weigh  upon  the  city  wanderer's  heart 
With  peace  so  pure  as  this !     Why,  yonder 

stood, 
A  fledgling's  downward  flight  beyond  the 

spire, 
The  gray  old  manse,  endear'd  by  memories 


The  glimmering] spire  that  peeps  above  the  firs, 
The  stream  whose  soft  blue  arms  encircle  all, — 
And  in  the  background  heathery  norland  hills, 
Hued  like  the  azure  of  the  dew-berrie, 
And  mingling  with  the  regions  of  the  rain  I 


Of  Jean  the  daughter  of  the  minister ; 
And  in  the  cottage  with  the  painted  sign, 
Hard  by  the  bridge,  how  many  a  winter  night 
Had  I  with  politicians  sapient-eyed 
Discuss'd  the  county  paper's  latest  news 
And  read  of  toppling  thrones ! — And  noughf 

seem'd  changed ! 

The  very  gig  before  the  smithy  door, 
The  barefoot  maiden  with  the  milking  pail 
Pausing  and  looking  backward  from  the 

bridge, 
The  last  rook  wavering  homeward  to  the 

wood, 

All  seem'd  a  sunset-picture,  every  tint 
Unchanged,  since  I  had  bidden  it  farewell. 
My  heart  grew  garrulous  of  olden  times, 
And  my  face  sadden'd,  as  I  saunter'd  down. 
Then  came  a  rural  music  on  my  ears, — 
The  waggons  in  the  lanes,  the  waterfall 
With  cool  sound  plunging  in  its  wood-nest 

wild, 

The  rooks  amid  the  windy  rookery, 
The  shouts  of  children,  and  more  far  away 
The  crowing  of  a  cock.  Then  o'er  the  bridge 
I  bent,  above  the  river  gushing  down 


THE  LOWLAND    VILLAGE— WILLIE  BAIRD. 


77 


Thro'  mossy  boulders,  making  underneath 
Green-shaded  pools  where  now  and  then  a 

trout 

Sank  in  the  ripple  of  its  own  quick  leap  ; 
And  like  some  olden  and  familiar  tune, 
Half  humm'd  aloud,   half  tinkling  in  the 

brain, 

Troublously,  faintly,  came  the  buzz  of  looms. 
And  here  I  linger'd,  nested  in  the  shade 
Of  Peace  that  makes  a  music  as  she  grows  ; 
And  when  the  vale  had  put  its  glory  on 
The  bitter  aspiration  was  subdued, 
And  Pleasure,  tho'  she  wore  a  woodland 

crown, 

Look'd  at  me  with  Ambition's  serious  eyes. 
Amid  the  deep  green  woods  of  pine,  whose 

boughs 

Made  a  sea-music  overhead,  and  caught 
White  flakes  of  sunlight  on  their  highest 

leaves, 

I  foster' d  solemn  meditations  ; 
Stretch'd  on  the  sloping  river  banks,  fresh 

strewn 

With  speedwell,  primrose,  and  anemone, 
I  watch'd  the  bright  king-fisher  dart  about, 
His  quick  small  shadow  with  an  azure  gleam 
Startling  the  minnows  in  the  pool  beneath  ; 
Or  later  on  the  moors,  where  far  away 
Across  the  waste  the  sportsman  with  his  gun 
Stood  a  dark  speck  across  the  azure,  while 
The  heath-hen  tower'd  with  beating  wings 

and  fell, 

I  caught  the  solemn  wind  that  wander '  d  down 
With  thunder-echoes  heaved  among  the  hills. 
Nor  lack'd  I,  in  the  balmy  summer  nights, 
Or  on  the  days  of  rain,  such  counterpoise 
As  books  can  give.     The  honey-languaged 

Greek 

Who  gently  piped  the  sweet  bucolic  lay, 
The  wit  who  raved  of  Lesbia's  loosen'd  zone 
And  loved  divinely  what  was  less  than  earth, 
Were  with  me  ;  others,  of  a  later  date  : 
The  eagle-eyed  comedian  divine  ; 
The  English  Homer,  not  the  humpback'd 

one 

Who  sung  Belinda's  curl  at  Twickenham, 
But  Chapman,  master  of  the  long  strong  line; 
Moreover,  those  few  singers  who  have  lit 
The  beacon-lights  of  these  our  latter  days- 
Chief,  young  Hyperion,  who  setting  soon 
Sent  his  pale  look  along  the  future  time, 
And  the  tall  figure  on  the  hills,  that  stoopt 
To  see  the  daisy's  shadow  on  the  grass. 


WILLIE  BAIRD. 

'  An  old  man's  tale,  a  tale  for  men  gray-hair'd, 
Who  wear,  thro'  second  childhood,  to  the  Lord. 

'Tis  two-and-thirty  summers  since  I  came 
To  school  the  village  lads  of  Inverburn. 

My  father  was  a  shepherd  old  and  poor, 
Who,  dwelling  'mong  the  clouds  on  norland 

hills, 

His  tartan  plaidie  on,  and  by  his  side 
His  sheep-dog  running,  redden'd  with  the 

winds 

That  whistle  southward  from  the  Polar  seas: 
I  follow' d  in  his  footsteps  when  a  boy, 
And  knew  by  heart  the  mountains  round  our 

home  ; 

But  when  I  went  to  Edinglass,  to  learn 
At  college  there,  I  look'd  about  the  place, 
And  heard  the  murmur  of  the  busy  streets 
Around  me,  in  a  dream  ; — and  only  saw 
The  clouds  that  snow  around  the  mountain- 
tops, 
The  mists  that  chase  the  phantom  of  the 

moon 
In  lonely  mountain  tarns, — and  heard  the 

while, 

Not  footsteps  sounding  hollow  to  and  fro, 
But  winds  sough-soughing  thro"  the  woods 

of  pine. 
Time  pass'd  ;  and  day  by  day  those  sights 

and  sounds 
Grew  fainter, — till  they  troubled  me  no  more. 

O  Willie,  Willie,  are  you  sleeping  sound  ? 
And  can  you  feel  the  stone  that  I  have  placed 
Yonder  above  you  ?  Are  you  dead,  my  doo  ? 
Or  did  you  see  the  shining  Hand  that  parts 
The  clouds  above,  and  becks  the  bonnie 

birds, 

Until  they  wing  away,  and  human  eyes, 
That  watch  them  till  they  vanish  in  the  blue, 
Droop  and  grow  tearful  ?  Ay,  I  ken,  I  ken, 
I'm  talking  folly,  but  I  loved  the  child  ! 
He  was  the  bravest  scholar  in  the  school ! 
He  came  to  teach  the  very  dominie — 
Me,  with  my  lyart  locks  and  sleepy  heart ! 

O  weel  I  mind  the  day  his  mother  brought 
Her  tiny  trembling  tot  with  yellow  hair, 
Her  tiny  poor-clad  tot  six  summers  old, 


IDYLS  AND   LEGENDS   OF  INVERDURN. 


And  left  him  seated  lonely  on  a  form 
Before    my    desk.     He  neither  wept   nor 

gloom'd  ; 

But  waited  silently,  with  shoeless  feet 
Swinging  above  the  floor  ;  in  wonder  eyed 
The  maps  upon  the  walls,  the  big  black 

board, 
The  slates  and  books  and  copies,  and  my 

own 
Grey  hose  and  clumpy  boots  ;  last,  fixing 

gaze 

Upon  a  monster  spider's  web  that  fill'd 
One    corner  of   the  whitewash'd    ceiling, 

watch 'd 

The  speckled  traitor  jump  and  jink  about, 
Till  he  forgot  my  unfamiliar  eyes, 
Weary  and  strange  and  old.     '  Come  here, 

my  bairn  ! ' 

And  timid  as  a  lamb  he  seedbed  up. 
'What  do  they  call  ye?'     'Willie,'  coo'd 

the  wean, 

Up-peeping  slyly,  scraping  with  his  feet. 
I  put  my  hand  upon  his  yellow  hair, 
And  cheer'd  him  kindly.    Then  I  bade  him 

lift 
The  small  black  bell  that  stands  behind  the 

door 
And  ring  the  shouting  laddies  from  their 

play. 
'  Run,  Willie  ! '    And  he  ran,  and  eyed  the 

bell, 
Stoop'd  o'er  it,  seem'd  afraid  that  it  would 

bite, 

Then  grasp'd  it  firm,  and  as  it  jingled  gave 
A    timid    cry — next  laugh' d   to   hear   the 

sound — 

And  ran  full  merry  to  the  door  and  rang, 
And  rang,  and  rang,  while  lights  of  music  lit 
His  pallid  cheek,   till,    shouting,    panting 

hard, 
In  ran  the  big  rough  laddies  from  their  play. 

Then  rapping  sharply  on  the  desk  I  drove 
The  laddies  to  their  seats,  and  beckon'd  up 
The  stranger — smiling,  bade  him  seat  him- 
self 

And  hearken  to  the  rest.     Two  weary  hours 
Buzz-buzz,  boom-boom,  went  on  the  noise 

of  school, 

While  Willie  sat  and  listen'd  open-mouthed; 
Till  school  was  over,  and  the  big  and  small 
Flew  home   in  flocks.     But  Willie  stay'd 
behind. 


I  beckon'd  to  the  mannock  with  a  smile, 
And  took  him  on  my  knee  and  crack'd  and 
talk'd. 

First,  he  was  timid  ;  next,  grew  bashful ; 

next, 

He  warm'd  and  told  me  stories  of  his  home,. 
His  father,  mother,  sisters,  brothers,  all ; 
And  how,  when  strong  and  big,  he  meant 

to  buy 

A  gig  to  drive  his  father  to  the  kirk  ; 
And  how  he  long'd  to  be  a  dominie  : 
Such  simple  prattle  as  I  plainly  see 
You  smile  at.     But  to  little  children  God 
Has  given  wisdom  and  mysterious  power 
Which  beat  the  mathematics.     Qucerere 
Verum  in  sylvis  Academi,  Sir, 
Is  meet  for  men  who  can  afford  to  dwell 
For  ever  in  a  garden,  reading  books 
Of  morals  and  the  logic.  •  Good  and  weel ! 
Give  me  such  liny  truths  as  only  bloom 
Like  red-tipt  gowans  at  the  hallanstone, 
Or  kindle  softly,  flashing  bright  at  times, 
In  furfing  cottage  fires  ! 

The  laddie  still 

Was  seated  on  my  knee,  when  at  the  door 
We   heard   a   sound  of  scraping :    Willie 

prick'd 
His  ears  and  listened,  then  he  clapt  his 

hands — 
1  Hey  !  Donald,  Donald,  Donald  ! '     [See  ! 

the  rogue 
Looks  up  and  blinks  his  eyes — he  kens  his 

name  !] 
'  Hey,  Donald,  Donald  ! '  Willie  cried.  Ax 

that 

I  saw  beneath  me,  at  the  door,  a  Dog — 
The  very  collie  dozing  at  your  feet, 
His  nose  between  his  paws,  his  eyes  half 

closed. 

At  sight  of  Willie,  with  a  joyful  bark 
He  leapt  and  gamboll'd,  eying  me  the  while 
In  queer  suspicion;  and  the  mannock  peep'd 
Into  my  face,  while  patting  Donald's  back — 
'  It's  Donald  !   he  has   come  to   take   me 

home  ! ' 

An  old  man's  tale,  a  tale  for  men  gray- 

hair'd, 
Who  wear,  thro*  second  childhood  to  the 

grave  ! 
I'll  hasten  on.  Thenceforward  Willie  came 


WILLIE  BAIRD. 


79 


Daily  to  school,  and  daily  to  the  door 
Came  Donald  trotting  ;  and  they  homeward 

went 

Together— Willie  walking  slow  but  sure, 
And  Donald  trotting  sagely  by  his  side. 
[Ay,  Donald,  he  is  dead  !  be  still,  old  man  !] 

What  link  existed,  human  or  divine, 
Between  the  tiny  tot  six  summers  old, 
And  yonder  life  of  mine  upon  the  hills 
Among  the  mists  and  storms  ?  'Tis  strange, 

'tis  strange  ! 

But  when.  I  look'd  on  Willie's  face,  it  seem'd 
That  I  had  known  it  in  some  beauteous 

life 

That  I  had  left  behind  me  in  the  north. 
This  fancy  grew  and  grew,  till  oft  I  sat — 
The  buzzing  school  around  me— and  would 

seem 

To  be  among  the  mists,  the  tracks  of  rain, 
Nearing  the  awful  silence  of  the  snow. 
Slowly  and  surely  I  began  to  feel 
That  I  was  all  alone  in  all  the  world, 
And  that  my  mother  and  my  father  slept 
Far,  far  away  in  some  forgotten  kirk — 
Remember'd  but  in  dreams.  Alone  at  nights, 
I  read  my  Bible  more  and  Euclid  less. 
For,  mind  you,  like  my  betters,  I  had  been 
Half  scoffer,  half  believer  ;  on  the  whole, 
I  thought  the  life  beyond  a  useless  dream, 
Best  left  alone,  and  shut  my  eyes  to  themes 
That  puzzled  mathematics.     But  at  last, 
When  Willie  Baird  and  I  grew  friends,  and 

thoughts 

Came  to  me  from  beyond  my  father's  grave, 
I  found  'twas  pleasant  late  at  e'en  to  read 
My  Bible — haply,  only  just  to  pick 
Some  easy  chapter  for  my  pet  to  learn — 
Yet  night  by  night  my  soul  was  guided  on 
Like  a  blind  man  some  angel  hand  convoys. 

I  cannot  frame  in  speech  the  thoughts  that 

fill'd 
This  gray  old  brow,  the  feelings  dim  and 

warm 
That  soothed  the  throbbings  of  this  weary 

heart ! 

But  when  I  placed  my  hand  on  Willie's  head, 
Warm  sunshine  tingled  from  the  yellow  hair 
Thro'  trembling  fingers  to  my  blood 

within  ; 

And  when  I  look'd  in  Willie's  stainless  eyes 
I  saw  the  empty  ether  floating  gray 


O'er  shadowy  mountains  murmuring  low 

with  winds ! 

And  often  when,  in  his  old-fashion'd  way, 
He  question'd  me,  I  seem'd  to  hear  a  voice 
From  far  away,  that  mingled  with  the  cries 
Hauntingthe  regions  where  the  roundredsun 
Is  all  alone  with  God  among  the  snow  ! 

Who  made  the  stars  ?  and  if  within  his 

hand 
He  caught  and  held  one,  would  his  fingers 

burn  ! 

If  I,  the  gray-hair'd  dominie,  was  dug 
From  out  a  cabbage  garden  such  as  he 
Was  found  in  ?  if,  when  bigger,  he  would 

wear 
Gray  homespun  hose  and  clumsy  boots  like 

mine, 

And  have  a  house  to  dwell  in  all  alone  ? 
Thus  would  he  question,  seated  on  my  knee, 
While  Donald  (wheesht,  old  man  !)  stretch'd 

lyart  limbs 

Under  my  chair,  contented.  Open-mouth'd 
He  hearken'd  to  the  tales  I  loved  to  tell 
About  Sir  William  Wallace  and  the  Bruce, 
And  the  sweet  lady  on  the  Scottish  throne, 
Whose  crown  was  colder  than  a  band  of  ice, 
Yet  seem'd  a  sunny  crown  whene'er  she 

smiled ; 

With  many  tales  of  genii,  giants,  dwarfs, 
And  little  folk  that  play  at  jing-a-ring 
On  beds  of  harebells  'neath  the  silver  moon ; 
Stories  and  rhymes  and  songs  of  Wonder- 
land : 

How  Tammas  Ercildoune  in  Elfland  dwelt, 
How  Galloway's  mermaid  comb'dher  golden 

hair, 
How  Tammas  Thumb  stuck  in  the  spider's 

web, 
And  fought  and  fought,  a  needle  for  his 

sword, 

Dyeing  his  weapon  in  the  crimson  blood 
Of  the  foul  traitor  with  the  poison'd  fangs  ! 

And  when  we  read  the  Holy  Book,  the 

child 
Would  think  and  think  o'er  parts  he  loved 

the  best ; 
The  draught  of  fish,  the  Child  that  sat  so 

wise 

In  the  great  Temple,  Herod's  cruel  law 
To  slay  the  bairns,  or — oftenest  of  all — 
The  crucifixion  of  the  Good  Kind  Man 


8o 


IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  INVERBURN. 


Who  loved  the  weans  and  was  a  wean  him- 
self. 
He  speir'd  of  Death  !  and  were  the  sleepers 

cold 
Down  in  the  dark  wet  earth  ?  and  was  it 

God 

That  put  the  grass  and  flowers  in  the  kirk- 
yard? 
What  kind  of  dwelling-place  was  heaven 

above  ? 
And  was  it  full  of  flowers  ?  and  were  there 

schools 

And  dominies  there  ?  and  was  it  far  away  ? 
Then,  with  a  look  that  made  your  eyes 

grow  dim, 
Clasping    his    wee    white    hands    round 

Donald's  neck, 

'  Do  doggies  gang  to  heaven  ? '  he  would  ask ; 
'  Would  Donald  gang  ?  '    and   keek'd    in 

Donald's  face, 

While  Donald  blink'd  with  meditative  gaze, 
As  if  he  knew  full  brawly  what  we  said, 
And  ponder'd  o'er  it,  wiser  far  than  we  ! 
But  how  I  answer'd,  how  explain'd  these 

themes 

I  know  not.     Oft  I  could  not  speak  at  all. 
Yet  every  question  made  me  think  of  things 
Forgotten,  puzzled  so,  and  when  I  strove 
To  reason  puzzled  me  so  much  the  more, 
That,  flinging  logic  to  the  winds,  I  went 
Straight  onward  to  the  mark  in  Willie's  way. 
Took  most  for  granted,  laid  down  premises 
Of  Faith,  imagined,  gave  my  wit  the  reins, 
And  oft  on  nights  at  e'en,  to  my  surprise, 
Felt  palpably  an  angel's  glowing  face 
Glimmering  down  upon  me,  while  mine  eyes 
Dimm'd  their  old  orbs  with  tears  that  came 

unbid 
To  bear  the  glory  of  the  light  they  saw  ! 

So  summer  pass'd.     Yon  chestnut  at  the 

door 
Scatter'd  its  burnish'd  leaves  and  made  a 

sound 

Of  wind  among  its  branches.     Every  day 
Came  Willie,  seldom  going  home  again 
Till  near  the  sunset :  wet  or  dry  he  came  : 
Oft  in  the  rainy  weather  carrying 
A  big  umbrella,  under  which  he  walk'd — 
A  little  fairy  in  a  parachute 
Blown  hither,  thither,  at  the  wind's  wild 

will. 
Pleased  was  my  heart  to  see  his  pallid  cheeks 


Were  gathering  rosy-posies,  that  his  eyes 
Were  softer  and  less  sad.     Then,   with  a 

gust, 

Old  Winter  tumbled  shrieking  from  the  hills, 
His  white  hair  blowing  in  the  wind. 

The  house 

Where  Willie's  mother  lives  is  scarce  a  mile 
From  yonder  hallan,  if  you  take  a  cut 
Before  you  reach  the  village,  crossing  o'er 
Green  meadows  till  you  reach  the  road  again; 
But  he  who  thither  goes  along  the  road 
Loses  a  reaper's  mile.     The  summer  long 
Wee  Willie  came  and  went  across  the  fields : 
He  loved  the  smell  of  flowers  and  grass,  the 

sight 
Of  cows  and  sheep,  the  changing  stalks  of 

wheat, 
And  he  was  weak  and  small.    When  winter 

came, 

Still  caring  not  a  straw  for  wind  or  rain 
Came  Willie  and  the  collie  ;  till  by  night 
Down  fell  the  snow,  and  fell  three  nights  and 

days, 
Then  ceased.     The  ground  was  white  and 

ankle -deep ; 

The  window  of  the  school  was  threaded  o'er 
With  flowers  of  hueless  ice — Frost's  unseen 

hands 
Prick'd  you  from  head  to  foot  with  tingling 

heat. 

The  shouting  urchins,  yonder  on  the  green, 
Play'd  snowballs.     In  the  school  a  cheery 

fire 

Was  kindled  every  day,  and  every  day 
When  Willie  came  he  had  the  warmest  seat, 
And  every  day  old  Donald,  punctual,  came 
To  join  us,  after  labour,  in  the  lowe. 

Three  days  and  nights  the  snow   had 

mistily  fall'n. 

It  lay  long  miles  along  the  country-side, 
White,  awful,  silent.     In  the  keen  cold  air 
There  was  a  hush,  a  sleepless  silentness, 
And  mid  it  all,  upraising  eyes,  you  felt 
God's  breath  upon  your  face  ;  and  in  your 

blood, 
Though  you  were  cold  to  touch,  was  flaming 

fire, 

Such  as  within  the  bowels  of  the  earth 
Burnt  at  the  bones  of  ice,  and  wreath' d  them 

round 
With  grass  ungrown. 


WILLIE  BAIRD. 


Si- 


One  day  in  school  I  saw, 
Through    threaded   window-panes,     soft 

snowy  flakes 

Fall  with  unquiet  motion,  mistily,  slowly, 
At  intervals  ;  but  when  the  boys  were  gone, 
And  in  ran  Donald  with  a  dripping  nose, 
The  air  was  clear  and  gray  as  glass.   An  hour 
Sat  Willie,  Donald,  and  myself  around 
The  murmuring  fire,  and  then  with  tender 

hand 

I  wrapt  a  comforter  round  Willie's  throat, 
Button'  d  his  coat  around  him  close  and  warm , 
And  off  he  ran  with  Donald,  happy-eyed 
And  merry,  leaving  fairy  prints  of  feet 
Behind  him  on  the  snow.     I  watch'd  them 

fade 
Round  the  white  curve,  and,  turning  with  a 

sigh, 

Came  in  to  sort  the  room  and  smoke  a  pipe 
Before  the  fire.  Here,  dreaming  all  alone, 
I  sat  and  smoked,  and  in  the  fire  saw  clear 
The  norland  mountains,  white  and  cold  with 

snow 
That  crumbled  silently,  and  moved,  and 

changed, — 

When  suddenly  the  air  grew  sick  and  dark, 
And  from  the  distance  came  a  hollow  sound, 
A  murmur  like  the  moan  of  far-off  seas. 

I  started  to  my  feet,  look'd  out,  and  knew 
The  winter  wind  was  whistling  from  the 

clouds 

To  lash  the  snow-clothed  plain,  and  to  my- 
self 

I  prophesied  a  storm  before  the  night. 
Then  with  an  icy  pain,  an  eldritch  fear, 
I  thought  of  Willie  ;  but  I  cheer'd  my  heart, 
1  He's  home,  and  with  his  mother,  long  ere 

this ! ' 

While  thus  I  stood  the  hollow  murmur  grew 
Deeper,  the  wold  grew  darker,  and  the  snow 
Rush'd  downward,  whirling  in  a  shadowy 

mist. 

I  walk'd  to  yonder  door  and  open'd  it. 
Whirr  !  the  wind  swung  it  from  me  with  a 

clang, 

And  in  upon  me  with  an  iron-like  crash 
Swoop'd  in  the  drift !    With  pinch'd  sharp 

face  I  gazed 
Out  on  the  storm  !     Dark,  dark,  was  all ! 

A  mist, 

A  blinding,  whirling  mist,  of  chilly  snow, 
The  falling  and  the  driven  ;  for  the  wind 


Swept  round  and  round  in  clouds  upon  the 

earth, 

And  birm'dthedeathly  drift  aloft  with  moans, 
Till  all  was  dreadful  darkness.  Far  above 
A  voice  was  shrieking,  like  a  human  cry  1 

I  closed  the  door,  and  turn'd  me  to  the 

fire, 
With  something  on  my  heart — a  load — a 

sense 

Of  an  impending  pain.  Down  the  broad  lum 
Came  melting  flakes  that  hiss'd  upon  the 

coal ; 

Under  my  eyelids  blew  the  blinding  smoke, 
And  for  a  time  I  sat  like  one  bewitch'd, 
Still  as  a  stone.   The  lonely  room  grew  dark, 
The  flickering  fire  threw  phantoms  of  the 

snow 

Along  the  floor  and  on  the  walls  around  • 
The  melancholy  ticking  of  the  clock 
Was  like  the  beating  of  my  heart.      But, 

hush! 

Above  the  moaning  of  the  wind  I  heard 
A  sudden  scraping  at  the  door  ;  my  heart 
Stood  still  and  listen'd  ;  and  with  that  there 

rose 

An  awsome  howl,  shrill  as  a  dying  screech, 
And  scrape-scrape-scrape,  the  sound  beyond 

the  door ! 
I  could  not  think — I  could  not  breathe — a 

dark, 

Awful  foreboding  gript  me  like  a  hand, 
As  opening  the  door  I  gazed  straight  out, 
Saw  nothing,  till  I  felt  against  my  knees 
Something  that  moved  and  heard  a  moaning 

sound — 
Then,  panting,  moaning,  o'er  the  threshold 

leapt 
Donald  the  dog,  alone,  and  white  with  snow. 

Down,  Donald  !  down,  old  man  !    Sir, 

look  at  him  ! 

I  swear  he  knows  the  meaning  of  my  words, 
And  tho'  he  cannot  speak,  his  heart  is  full ! 
See  now  !  see  now  !  he  puts  his  cold  black 

nose 
Into  my  palm  and  whines  !  he  knows,  he 

knows  ! 
Would  speak,  and  cannot,  but  he  minds 

that  night ! 

The  terror  of  my  heart  seem' d  choking  me. 
Dumbly  I  stared  and  wildly  at  the  dog, 


82 


IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS   OF  INVERBURN. 


Who  gazed  into  my  face  and  whined  and 

moan'd, 
Leap'd  at  the  door,  then  touched  me  with 

his  paws, 

And  lastly,  gript  my  coat  between  his  teeth, 
And    pull'd  and  pull'd — whiles   growling, 

whining  whiles — 

Till  fairly  madden'd,  in  bewilder'd  fear, 
I  let  him  drag  me  through  the  banging  door 
Out  to  the  whirling  storm.      Bareheaded, 

wild, 

The  wind  and  snow-drift  beating  on  my  face 
Blowing  me  hither,  thither,  with  the  dog, 
I  dash'd  along  the  road.      What  folio w'd 

seem'd 

An  eerie,  eerie  dream  ! — a  world  of  snow, 
A  sky  of  wind,  a  whirling  howling  mist 
Which  swam  around  with  hundred  sickly 

eyes; 
And  Donald  dragging,  dragging,  beaten, 

bruised, 

Leading  me  on  to  something  that  I  fear'd — 
An  awful  something,  and  I  knew  not  what ! 
On,  on,  and  farther  on,  and  still  the  snow 
Whirling,  the  tempest  moaning !    Then  I 

mind 

Of  groping  blindly  in  the  shadowy  light, 
And  Donald  by  me  burrowing  with  his  nose 
And  whining.    Next  a  darkness,  blank  and 

deep! 

But  then  I  mind  of  tearing  thro'  the  storm, 
Stumbling  and  tripping,  blind  and  deaf  and 

dumb, 

And  holding  to  my  heart  an  icy  load 
I  clutch'd  with  freezing  fingers.   Far  away — 
It  seem'd  long  miles  on  miles  away — I  saw 
A  yellow  light — unto  that  light  I  tore — 
And  last,  remember  opening  a  door 
And  falling,  dazzled  by  a  blinding  gleam 
Of  human  faces  and  a  flaming  fire, 
And  with  a  crash  of  voices  in  my  ears 
Fading  away  into  a  world  of  snow. 

When  I  awaken'd  to  myself,  I  lay 
In  my  own  bed  at  home.     I  started  up 
As  from  an  evil  dream  and  look'd  around, 
And  to  my  side  came  one,  a  neighbour's  wife, 
Mother  to  two  young  lads  I  taught  in  school. 
With  hollow,  hollow  voice  I  question'd  her, 
And  soon  knew  all :  how  a  long  night  had 

pass'd 

Since,  with  a  lifeless  laddie  in  my  arms, 
I  stumbled  horror-stricken,  swooning,  wild 


Into  a  ploughman's  cottage  :  at  my  side, 
My  coat  between  his  teeth,  a  dog  ;  and  how 
Senseless  and  cold  I  fell.    Thence,  when  the 

storm 

Had  pass'd  away,  they  bore  me  to  my  home. 
I  listen' d  dumbly,  catching  at  the  sense  ; 
But  when  the  woman  mention'd  Willie's 

name, 
And  I  was  fear'd  to  phrase  the  thought  that 

rose, 

She  saw  the  question  in  my  tearless  eyes 
And  told  me — he  was  dead. 

'T would  weary  y 
To  tell  the  thoughts,  the  fancies,  and  t 

dreams 

That  weigh'd  upon  me,  ere  I  rose  in  bed, 
But  little  harm'd,  and  sent  the  wife  away, 
Rose,  slowly  drest,  took  up  my  staff  and  went 
To  Willie's  mother's  cottage.     As  I  walk'd, 
Though  all  the  air  was  calm  and  cold  and 

still, 
The  blowing  wind  and  dazzled  snow  were 

yet 

Around  about.     I  was  bewilder'd  like  ! 
Ere  I  had  time  to  think  I  found  myself 
Beside  a  truckle  bed,  and  at  my  side 
A  weeping  woman.      And  I  clench'd  my 

hands, 
And  look'd  on  Willie,  who  had  gone  to  sleep. 

In  death-gown  white,  lay  Willie  fast  asleep, 
His  blue  eyes  closed,  his  tiny  fingers  clench'd, 
His  lips  apart  a  wee  as  if  he  breathed, 
His  yellow  hair  kaim'd  back,  and  on  his  face 
A  smile — yet  not  a  smile — a  dim  pale  light 
Such  as  the  snow  keeps  in  its  own  soft  wings. 
Ay,  he  had  gone  to  sleep,  and  he  was  sound ! 
And  by  the  bed  lay  Donald  watching  still, 
And  when  I  look'd,  he  whined,  but  did  not 


I  turn'd  in  silence,  with  my  nails  stuck  deep 
In  my  clench'd  palms  ;  but  in  my  heart  of 

hearts 

I  pray'd  to  God.     In  Willie's  mother's  face 
There  was  a  cold  and  silent  bitterness — 
I  saw  it  plain,  but  saw  it  in  a  dream, 
And  cared  not.     So  I  went  my  way,  as  grim 
As  one  who  holds  his  breath  to  slay  himself. 
What  follow' d  that  is  vague  as  was  the  rest : 
A  winter  day,  a  landscape  hush'd  in  snow, 
A  weary  wind,  a  small  white  coffin  b<?rne 


WILLIE   BA1RD-LORD   RONALD'S   WIFE. 


On  a  man's  shoulder,  shapes  in  black,  o'er 

all 

The  solemn  clanging  of  an  iron  bell, 
And  lastly  me  and  Donald  standing  both 
Beside  a  tiny  mound  of  fresh-heap'd  earth, 
And  while  around  the  snow  began  to  fall 
Mistily,  softly,  thro'  the  icy  air, 
Looking  at  one  another,  dumb  and  cold. 

And  Willie 's  dead  ! — that's  all  I  compre- 
hend— 

Ay,  bonnie  Willie  Baird  has  gone  before  : 
The  school,  the  tempest,  and  the  eerie  pain, 
Seem  but  a  dream, — and  I  am  weary  like. 
I  begged  old  Donald  hard— they  gave  him 

me — 

And  we  have  lived  together  in  this  house, 
Long  years,  with  no  companions.  There's  no 

need 
Of  speech  between  us  !    Here  we  dumbly 

bide, 

But  ken  each  other's  sorrow, — and  we  both 
Feel  weary.     When  the  nights  are  long  and 

cold, 

And  snow  is  falling  as  it  falleth  now, 
And  wintry  winds  are  moaning,  here  I  dream 
Of  Willie  and  the  unfamiliar  life 
I  left  behind  me  on  the  norland  hills  ! 
1  Do  doggies  gang  to  heaven  ? '  Willie  ask'd; 
And  ah  !  what  Solomon  of  modern  days 
Can  answer  that  ?    Yet  here  at  nights  I  sit, 
Reading  the  Book,  with  Donald  at  my  side  ; 
And  stooping,  with  the  Book  upon  my  knee, 
I  sometimes  gaze  in  Donald's  patient  eyes — 
So  sad,  so  human,  though  he  cannot  speak — 
And  think  he  knows  that  Willie  is  at  peace, 
Far  far  away  beyond  the  norland  hills, 
Beyond  the  silence  of  the  untrodden  snow. 


LORD  RONALD'S   WIFE. 


LAST  night  I  toss'd  upon  my  bed, 

Because  I  knew  that  she  was  dead  : 

The  curtains  were  white,  the  pane  was  blue, 

The  moon  peep'd  through, 

And  its  eye  was  red — 
1 1  would  that  my  love  were  awake  ! '  I  said. 


Then  I  rose  and  the  lamp  of  silver  lit, 
And  over  the  rushes  lightly  slept, 


Crept  to  the  door  and  open'd  it, 

And  enter' d  the  room  where  my  lady  slept ; 
And  the  silver  lamp  threw  a  feeble  ray 
Over  the  bed  on  which  she  lay, 
And  sparkled  on  her  golden  hair, 
Smiled  on  her  lip  and  melted  there, 
And  I  shudder'd  because  shelook'd  so  fair; — 
For  the  curtains  were  white  and  the  pane  was 
blue, 

And  the  moon  look'd  through, 

And  its  eye  was  red  : 
'  I  will  hold  her  hand,  and  think,'  I  said. 


And  at  first  I  could  not  think  at  all, 

Because  her  hand  was  so  thin  and  cold  ; 
The  gray  light  flicker'd  along  the  wall, 

And  I  seem'd  to  be  growing  old  ; 
I  look'd  in  her  face  and  could  not  weep, 
I  hated  the  sound  of  mine  own  deep 

breath, 
Lest  it  should  startle  her  from  the  sleep 

That  seem'd  too  sweet  and  mild  for  death. 
I  heard  the  far-off  clock  intone 
So  slowly,  so  slowly — 
Afar  across  the  courts  of  stone, 
The  black  hound  shook  his  chain  with  a 
moan, 

As  the  village  clock  chimed  slowly, 

slowly,  slowly. 
I  pray'd  that  she  might  rise  in  bed, 

And  smile  and  say  one  little  word, 
'  I  long  to  see  her  eyes  ! '  I  said  .  . 

I  should  have  shriek' d  if  she  had 
stirr'd. 

IV. 

I  never  sinn'd  against  thee,  Sweet ! 

And  yet  last  night,  when  none  could  see  .  . 
I  know  not .  .  but  from  head  to  feet, 

I  seem'd  one  scar  of  infamy  : 
Perhaps  because  the  fingers  light 
I  held  had  grown  so  worn  and  white, 
Perhaps  because  you  look'd  so  fair, 
With  the  thin  gray  light  on  your  golden  hair! 


You  were  warm,  and  I  was  cold, 

Yet  you  loved  me,  little  one,  I  knew — 

I  could  not  trifle — I  was  old — 
I  was  wiser,  carefuller,  than  you  ; 

I  liked  my  horse,  I  liked  my  hound, 

I  liked  to  hear  the  trumpet  sound, 

F2 


IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  INVERBURN. 


, 


Over  my  wine  I  liked  to  chat, 

But  soberly,  for  I  had  mind  : 
You  wanted  that,  and  only  that, 

You  were  as  light  as  is  the  wind. 
At  times,  I  know,  it  fretted  me — 

I  chid  thee  mildly  now  and  then — 
No  fault  of  mine — no  blame  to  thee — 

Women  are  women,  men  are  men. 
At  first  you  smiled  to  see  me  frown, 

And  laughing  leapt  upon  my  knee, 
And  kiss'd  the  chiding  shadow  down, 

And  smooth'd  my  great  beard  merrily  ; 
But  then  a  change  came  o'er  you,  Sweet ! 

You  walk'd  about  with  pensive  head  ; 

You  tried  to  read,  and  as  you  read 
Patted  your  small  impatient  feet : — 

'  She  is  wiser  now  ! '  I  smiling  said  .  . 
And  ere  I  doubted — you  were  dead. 

VI. 

All  this  came  back  upon  my  brain 

While  I  sat  alone  at  your  white  bedside, 
And  I  remember' d  in  my  pain 
Those  words  you  spoke  before  you  died — 
For  around  my  neck  your  arms  you  flung, 

And  smiled  so  sweet  though  death  was 

near — 
'  I  was  so  foolish  and  so  young  ! 

And  yet  I  loved  thee  ! — kiss  me,  dear  ! ' 
I  put  aside  your  golden  hair, 

And  kiss'd  you,  and  you  went  to  sleep 
And  when  I  saw  that  death  was  there, 

My  grief  was  cold,  I  could  not  weep  ; 
And  late  last  night,  when  you  were  dead, 
I  did  not  weep  beside  your  bed, 
For  the  curtains  were  white,  and  the  pane 
was  blue, 

And  the  moon  look'd  through, 
And  its  eye  was  red — 
'  How  coldly  she  lies  1 '  I  said. 


Then  loud,  so  loud,  before  I  knew, 

The  gray  and  black  cock  scream' d  and  crew, 

And  I  heard  the  far-off  bells  intone 

So  slowly,  so  slowly, 

The  black  hound  bark'd,  and  I  rose  with  a 
groan, 

As  the  village  bells  chimed  slowly, 

slowly,  slowly. 

I  dropp'd  the  hand  so  cold  and  thin, 
I  gazed,  and  your  face  seem'd  still  and 
wise, 


And  I  saw  the  damp  dull  dawn  stare  in 

Like  a  dim  drown'd  face  with  oozy  eyes  ; 
And  I  open'd  the  lattice  quietly, 
And  the  cold  wet  air  came  in  on  me, 
And  I  pluck'd  two  roses  with  fingers  chill 
From  the  roses  that  grew  at  your  window- 
sill, 

I  pluck'd  two  roses,  a  white  and  a  red, 
Stole  again  to  the  side  of  your  bed, 
Raised  the  edge  of  your  winding  fold, 

Dropp'd  the  roses  upon  your  breast, 
Cover'd  them  up  in  the  balmy  cold, 

That  none  might  know — and  there  they 

rest ! 

And  out  at  the  castle-gate  I  crept 
Into  the  woods,  and  then  .  .  I  wept ! 
But  to-day  they  carried  you  from  here, 

And  I  follow'd  your  coffin  with  tearless 

cheek — 
They  knew  not  about  the  roses,  dear  ! — 

I  would  not  have  them  think  me  weak. 


And  I  am  weary  on  my  bed 
Because  I  know  you  are  cold  and  dead  ; 
And  I  see  you  lie  in  darkness,  Sweet ! 
With  the  roses  under  your  winding-sheet ; 
The  days  and  nights  are  dreary  and  cold, 
And  I  am  foolish,  and  weak,  and  old. 


POET  ANDREW. 

O  Loom,  that  loud  art  murmuring, 
What  doth  he  hear  thee  say  or  sing  ? 
Thou  hummest  o'er  the  dead  one's  songs, 

He  cannot  choose  but  hark, 
His  heart  with  tearful  rapture  throngs, 

But  all  his  face  grows  dark. 

O  cottage  Fire,  that  burnest  bright, 
What  pictures  sees  he  in  thy  light  ? 
A  city's  smoke,  a  white  white  face. 

Phantoms  that  fade  and  die, 
And  last,  the  lonely  burial-place 

On  the  windy  hill  hard  by. 

'TlS  near  a  year  since  Andrew  went  to 

sleep — 

A  winter  and  a  summer.     Yonder  bed 
Is  where  the  boy  was  born,  and  where  he 

died, 

And  yonder  o'er  the  lowland  is  his  grave  : 
The  nook  of  grass  and  gowans  where  in 

thought 


I 


POET  ANDREW. 


I  found  you  standing  at  the  set  o'  sun  .  . 
The  Lord  content  us — 'tis  a  weary  world. 
These  five-and- twenty  years  I've  wrought 

and  wrought 
In  this  same  dwelling  ; — hearken  !  you  can 

hear 
The  looms  that  whuzzle-whazzle  ben  the 

house, 

Where  Jean  and  Mysie,  lassies  in  their  teens, 
And  Jamie,  and  a  neighbour's  son  beside, 
Work  late  and  early.     Andrew  who  is  dead 
Was  our  first-born  ;  and  when  he  crying 

came, 

With  beaded  een  and  pale  old-farrant  face, 
Out  of  the  darkness,  Mysie  and  mysel 
Were  young  and  heartsome  ;  and  his  smile, 

be  sure, 

Made  daily  toil  the  sweeter.     Hey,  his  kiss 
Put  honey  in  the  very  porridge-pot ! 
His  smile  strung  threads  of  sunshine  on  the 

loom  ! 

And  when  he  hung  around  his  mother's  neck, 
He  deck'd  her  out  in  jewels  and  in  gold 
That  even  ladies  envied  ! .  .  Weel ! .  .  in  time 
Came  other  children,  newer  gems  and  gold, 
And  Andrew  quitted  Mysie's  breast  for  mine. 
So  years  roll'd  on,  like  bobbins  on  a  loom  ; 
And  Mysie  and  mysel'  had  work  to  do, 
And  Andrew  took  his  turn  among  the  rest, 
No  sweeter,  dearer  ;  till,  one  Sabbath  day, 
When  Andrew  was  a  curly-pated  tot 
Of  sunny  summers  six,  I  had  a  crack 
With  Mister  Mucklewraith  the  Minister, 
Who  put  his  kindly  hand  on  Andrew's  head, 
Call'd  him  a  clever  wean,  a  bonnie  wean, 
Clever  at  learning,  while  the  mannikin 
Blush'd  red  as  any  rose,  and  peeping  up 
Went  twinkle-twinkle  with  his  round  black 

een  ; 
And  then,  while  Andrew  laugh'd  and  ran 

awa', 

The  Minister  went  deeper  in  his  praise, 
And  prophesied  he  would  become  in  time 
A  man  of  mark.     This  set  me  thinking,  sir, 
And  watching,— and  the  mannock  puzzled 


Would  sit  for  hours  upon  a  stool  and  draw 
Droll  faces  on  the  slate,  while  other  lads 
Were  shouting  at  their  play  ;  dumbly  would 

lie 

Beside  the  Lintock,  sailing,  piloting, 
Navies  of  docken-leaves  a  summer  day  ; 


Had  learn'd  the  hymns  of  Doctor  Watts  by 

heart 
And  as  for  old  Scots  songs,  could  lilt  them 

a' — 

From  Yarrow  Braes  to  Bonnie  Bessie  Lee— 
And  where  he  learn'd  them,  only  Heaven 

knew ; 

And  oft,  altho'  he  feared  to  sleep  his  lane, 
Would  cowrie  at  the  threshold  in  a  storm 
To  watch  the  lightning, — as  a  birdie  sits, 
With  fluttering  fearsome  heart  and  dripping 

wings, 

Among  the  branches.    Once,  I  mind  it  weel, 
In  came  he,  running,  with  a  bloody  nose, 
Part  tears,  part  pleasure,  to  his  fluttering 

heart 

Holding  a  callow  mavis  golden-bill'd, 
The  thin  white  film  of  death  across  its  een, 
And  told  us,  sobbing,  how  a  neighbour's  son 
Harried  the  birdie's  nest,  and  how  by  chance 
He  came  upon  the  thief  beside  the  burn 
Throwing  the  birdies  in  to  see  them  swim, 
And  how  he  fought  him,  till  he  yielded  up 
This  one,  the  one  remaining  of  the  nest ; — 
And  '  O  the  birdie 's  dying  ! '  sobb'd  he  sore, 
1  The  bonnie  birdie 's  dying  ! ' — till  it  died  ; 
And  Andrew  dug  a  grave  behind  the  house, 
Buried  his  dead,  and  cover'd  it  with  earth, 
And  cut,  to  mark  the  grave,  a  grassy  turf 
Where  blew  a  bunch  of  gowans.    After  that, 
I  thought  and  thought,  and  thick  as  bees 

the  thoughts 
Buzz'd    to  the  whuzzle-whazzling   of   the 

loom — 

I  could  make  naething  of  the  mannikin  ! 
But  by-and-by,  when  Hope  was  making  hay, 
And  web-work  rose,  I  settled  it  and  said 
To  the  good  wife,  '  'Tis  plain  that  yonder  lad 
Will  never  take  to  weaving — and  at  school 
They  say  he  beats  the  rest  at  all  his  tasks 
Save  figures  only  :  I  have  settled  it : 
Andrew  shall  be  a  minister — a  pride 
And  comfort  to  us,  Mysie,  in  our  age : 
He  shall  to  college  in  a  year  or  twa 
(If  fortune  smiles  as  now)  at  Edinglass.' 
You  guess  the  wife  open'd  her  een,  cried 

1  Foosh  ! ' 

And  call'd  the  plan  a  silly  senseless  dream, 
A  hopeless,  useless  castle  in  the  air  ; 
But  ere  the  night  was  out,  I  talk'd  her  o'er, 
And  here  she  sat,  her  hands  upon  her  knees, 
Glow'ring  and  heark'ning,  as  I  conjured  up, 
Amid  the  fog  and  reek  of  Edinglass 


86 


IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS   OF  INVERBURN. 


Life's  peaceful  gloaming  and  a  godly  fame. 
So  it  was  broach'd,  and  after  many  cracks 
With  Mister  Mucklewraith,  weplann'dita', 
And  day  by  day  we  laid  a  penny  by 
To  give  the  lad  when  he  should  quit  the 
bield. 

And  years  wore  on  ;  and  year  on  year  was 

cheer' d 
By  thoughts  of  Andrew,  drest  in   decent 

black, 
Throned  in  a   Pulpit,  preaching  out  the 

Word, 

A  house  his  own,  and  all  the  country-side 
To  touch  their  bonnets  to  him.  Weel,  the  lad 
Grew  up  among  us,  and  at  seventeen 
His  hands  were  genty  white,  and  he  was  tall, 
And  slim,  and  narrow-shoulder' d  :  pale  of 

face, 

Silent,  and  bashful.     Then  we  first  began 
To  feel  how  muckle  more  he  knew  than  we, 
To  eye  his  knowledge  in  a  kind  of  fear, 
As  folk  might  look  upon  a  crouching  beast, 
Bonnie,  but  like  enough  to  rise  and  bite. 
Up  came  the  cloud  between  us  silly  folk 
And  the  young  lad  that  sat  among  his  books 
Amid  the  silence  of  the  night ;  and  oft 
It  pain'd  us  sore  to  fancy  he  would  learn 
Enough  to  make  him  look  with  shame  and 

scorn 
On  this  old  dwelling.     'Twas  his  manner, 

sir! 

He  seldom  lookt  his  father  in  the  face,     • 
And  when  he  walkt  about  the  dwelling, 

seem'd 

Like  one  superior  ;  dumbly  he  would  steal 
To  the  burnside,  or  into  Lintlin  Woods, 
With  some  new-farrant  book, — and  when  I 

peep'd, 

Behold  a  book  of  jingling-jangling  rhyme, 
Fine-written  nothings  on  a  printed  page, 
And,  press' d  between  the  leaves,  a  flower 

perchance, 

Anemone  or  blue  forget-me-not, 
Pluckt  in  the  grassy  woodland.     Then  I 

look'd 

Into  his  drawer,  among  his  papers  there, 
And  found — you  guess? — a  heap  of  idle 

rhymes, 
Big-sounding,   like   the   worthless   printed 

book: 

Some  in  old  copies  scribbled,  some  on  scraps 
Of  writing  paper,  others  finely  writ 


With    spirls  and  flourishes  on  big  white 

sheets. 
I   clench'd  my  teeth,   and  groan'd.     The 

beauteous  dream 

Of  the  good  Preacher  in  his  braw  black  dress, 
With  house  and  income  snug,  began  to  fade 
Before  the  picture  of  a  drunken  loon 
Bawling  out  songs  beneath  the  moon  and 

stars,  — 

Of  poet  Willie  Clay,  who  wrote  a  book 
About  King  Robert  Bruce,  and  aye  got  fou, 
And  scatter'd  stars  in  verse,  and  aye  got  fou, 
Wept  the  world's  sins,  and  then  got  fou, 

again,— 

Of  Ferguson,  the  feckless  limb  o'  law, — 
And  Robin  Burns,  who  gauged  the  whisky- 
casks 
And  brake  the  seventh  commandment.     So 

at  once 

I  up  and  said  to  Andrew,  '  You're  a  fool ! 
You  waste  your  time  in  silly  senseless  .verse, 
Lame  as  your  own  conceit :  take  heed  !  take 

heed! 

Or,  like  your  betters,  come  to  grief  ere  long! ' 
But  Andrew  flusht  and  never  spake  a  word, 
Yet  eyed  me  sidelong  with  his  beaded  een, 
And  turn'd  awa',  and,    as  he   turn'd,  his 

look- 
Half  scorn,  half  sorrow— stang  me.     After 

that, 

I  felt  he  never  heeded  word  of  ours, 
And  tho'  we  tried  to  teach  him  common- 
sense 

He  idled  as  he  pleased  ;  and  many  a  year, 
After  I  spake  him  first,  that  look  of  his 
Came  dark  between  us,  and   I   held  my 

tongue, 

And  felt  he  scorn'd  me  for  the  poetry's  sake. 
This  coldness  grew  and  grew,  until  at  last 
We  sat  whole  nights  before  the  fire  and  spoke 
No  word  to  one  another.     One  fine  day, 
Says  Mister  Mucklewraith  to  me,  says  he, 
1  So  !  you've  a  Poet  in  your  house  ! '  and 

smiled  ; 

'  A  Poet?    God  forbid  ! '  I  cried  ;  and  then 
It  all  came  out :  how  Andrew  slyly  sent 
Verse  to  he  paper  ;  how  they  priftted  it 
In  Poet's  Corner  ;  how  the  printed  verse 
Had  ca't  a  girdle  in  the  callant's  head  ; 
How  Mistress  Mucklewraith  they  thought 

half  daft 
Had  cut  the  verses  out  and  pasted  them 


POET  ANDREW. 


In  albums,  and  had  praised  them  to  her 

friends. 

I  said  but  little  ;  for  my  schemes  and  dreams 
Were  tumbling  down  like  castles  in  the  air, 
And  all  my  heart  seem'd  hardening  to  stone. 
But  after  that,  in  secret  stealth,  I  bought 
The  papers,  hunted  out  the  printed  verse, 
And  read  it  like  a  thief  ;  thought  some  were 

good, 

And  others  foolish  havers,  and  in  most 
Saw  naething,  neither  common-sense  nor 

sound — 
Words    pottle-bellied,    meaningless,     and 

strange, 

That  strutted  up  and  down  the  printed  page, 
Like  bailies  made  to  bluster  and  look  big. 

'Twas  useless  grumbling.     All  my  silent 

looks 

Were  lost,  all  Mysie's  flyting  fell  on  ears 
Choke-full  of  other  counsel ;  but  we  talk'd 
In  bed  o'  nights,  and  Mysie  wept,  and  I 
Felt  stubborn,  wrothful,  wrong'd.    It  was  to 

be! 
But  mind  you,  though  we  mourn'd,  we  ne'er 

forsook 

The  college  scheme.  Our  sorrow,  as  we  saw 
Our  Andrew  growing  cold  to  homely  ways, 
And  scornful  of  the  bield,  but  strengthen' d 

more 

Our  wholesome  wish  to  educate  the  lad, 
And  do  our  duty  by  him,  and  help  him  on 
With  our  rough  hands — the  Lord  would  do 

the  rest, 
The  Lord  would  mend  or  mar  him.     So  at 

last, 

New-clad  from  top  to  toe  in  homespun  cloth, 
With  books  and  linen  in  a  muckle  trunk, 
He  went  his  way  to  college  ;  and  we  sat, 
Mysie  and  me,  in  weary  darkness  here  ; 
For  tho'  the  younger  bairns  were  still  about, 
It  seem'd  our  hearts  had  gone  to  Edinglass 
With  Andrew,  and  were  choking  in  the  reek 
Of  Edinglass  town. 

It  was  a  gruesome  fight, 
Both  for  oursel's  at  home,  and  for  the  boy, 
That  student  life  at  college.     Hard  it  was 
To  scrape  the  fees  together,  but  beside, 
The  lad  was  young  and  needed  meat  and 

drink. 

We  sent  him  meal  and  bannocks  by  the  train, 
And  country  cheeses ;  and  with  this  and  that, 


Though  sorely  push'd,  he  throve,  though 

now  and  then 

With  empty  wame  :  spinning  the  siller  out 
By  teaching  grammar  in  a  school  at  night. 
Whiles  he  came  home :  weary  old-farrant 

face 
Pale  from  the  midnight  candle ;  bringing 

home 

Good  news  of  college.    Then  we  shook  awa' 
The  old  sad  load,  began  to  build  again 
Our  airy  castles,  and  were  hopeful  Time 
Would  heal  our  wounds.     But,  sir,  they 

plagued  me  still — 
Some  of  his  ways  !  When  here,  he  spent  his 

time 

In  yonder  chamber,  or  about  the  woods, 
And  by  the  waterside, — and  with  him  books 
Of  poetry,  as  of  old.     Mysel'  could  get 
But  little  of  his  company  or  tongue  ; 
And  when  we  talkt,  atweel,  a  kind  of  frost, — 
My  consciousness  of  silly  ignorance, 
And  worse,   my  knowledge  that  the   lad 

himsel' 

Felt  sorely,  keenly,  all  my  ignorant  shame, 
Made  talk  a  torture  out  of  which  we  crept 
With  burning  faces.    Could  you  understand 
One  who  was  wild  as  if  he  found  a  mine 
Of  golden  guineas,  when  he  noticed  first 
The  soft  green  streaks  in  a  snowdrop's  inner 

leaves  ? 

And  once  again,  the  moonlight  glimmering 
Thro'  watery  transparent  stalks  of  flax? 
A  flower's    a    flower !  .   .   .   But  Andrew 

snooved  about, 

Aye  finding  wonders,  mighty  mysteries, 
In  things  that  ilka  learless  cottar  kenn'd. 
Now,  'twas  the  falling  snow  or  murmuring 

rain  ; 

Now,  'twas  the  laverock  singing  in  the  sun, 
And  dropping  slowly  to  the  callow  young  ; 
Now,  an  old  tune  he  heard  his  mother  lilt ; 
And  aye  those  trifles  made  his  pallid  face 
Flush  brighter,  and  his  een  flash  keener  far, 
Than  when  he  heard  of  yonder  storm  in 

France, 

Or  a  King's  death,  or,  if  the  like  had  been, 
A  city's  downfall. 

He  was  born  with  love 
For  things  both  great  and  small :  yet  seem'd 

to  prize 
The  small  things  best.     To  me,  it  seem'd 

indeed 


IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  INVERBURN. 


The  callant  cared  for  nothing  for  itsel', 
But  for  some  special  quality  it  had 
To  set  him  thinking,  or  at  least  bestow 
A  tearful  sense  he  took  for  luxury. 
He  loved  us  in  his  silent  fashion  weel ; 
But  in  our  feckless  ignorance  we  knew 
'Twas  when  the  humour  seized  him — with  a 

sense 

Of  some  queer  power  we  had  to  waken  up 
The  poetry — ay,  and  help  him  in  his  rhyme! 
A  kind  of  patronising  tenderness, 
A  pitying  pleasure  in  our  Scottish  speech 
And  homely  ways,  a  love  that  made  him  note 
Both  ways  and  speech  with  the  same  curious 

joy 
As  fill'd  him  when  he  watch'd  the  birds  and 

flowers. 

He  was  as  sore  a  puzzle  to  us  then 
As  he  had  been  before.     It  puzzled  us, 
How  a  big  lad,  down-cheek'd,  almost  a  man, 
Could  pass  his  time  in  silly  childish  joys  .  .  . 
Until  at  last,  a  hasty  letter  came 
From  Andrew,  telling  he  had  broke  awa' 
From  college,  pack'd  his  things,  and  taken 

train 

To  London  city,  where  he  hoped  (he  said) 
To  make  both  fortune  and  a  noble  fame 
Thro'  a  grand  poem,  carried  in  his  trunk  ; 
How,  after  struggling  on  with  bitter  heart, 
He  could  no  longer  bear  to  fight  his  way 
Among  the  common  scholars  ;  and  the  end 
Bade  us  be  hopeful,  trusting  God,  and  sure 
The  light  of  this  old  home  would  guide  him 

still 
Amid  the  reek  of  evil. 

Sae  it  was ! 
We  twa  were  less  amazed  than  you  may 

guess, 
Though  we  had  hoped,   and  fear'd,   and 

hoped,  so  long ! 

But  it  was  hard  to  bear — hard,  hard,  to  bear  ! 
Our  castle  in  the  clouds  was  gone  for  good  ; 
And  as  for  Andrew — other  lads  had  ta'en 
The  same  mad  path,  and  learn'd  the  bitter 

task 

Of  poverty  and  tears.    She  grat.    I  sat, 
In  silence,  looking  on  the  fuffing  fire, 
Where  streets  and  ghaistly  faces  came  and 

went, 

And  London  city  crumbled  down  to  crush 
Our  Andrew;  and  my  heart  was  sick  and  cold. 


Ere  long,  the  news  across  the  country-side 
Speak  quickly,  like  the  crowing  of  a  cock 
From  farm  to  farm — the  women  talkt  it  o'er 
On  doorsteps,  o'er  the  garden  rails  ;  the  men 
Got  fu'  upon  it  at  the  public-house, 
And  whisper'd  it  among  the  fields  at  work. 
A  cry  was  quickly  raised  from   house   to 

house, 
That  all  the  blame  was  mine,  and  canker'd 

een 

Lookt  cold  upon  me,  as  upon  a  kind 
Of  upstart.  '  Fie  on  pride  ! '  the  whisper  said, 
'  The  fault  was  Andrew's  less  than  those  who 

taught 

His  heart  to  look  in  scorn  on  honest  work, — 
Shame  on  them  ! — but  the  lad,  poor  lad, 

would  learn  ! ' 

O  sir,  the  thought  of  this  spoil' d  many  a  web 
In  yonder — tingling,  tingling,  in  my  ears, 
Until  I  fairly  threw  my  gloom  aside, 
Smiled  like  a  man  whose  heart  is  light  and 

young, 

And  with  a  future-kenning  happy  look 
Threw  up  my  chin,  and  bade  them  wait  and 

see  ... 

But,  night  by  night,  these  een  lookt  London- 
ways, 

And  saw  my  laddie  wandering  all  alone 
'Mid  darkness,  fog,  and  reek,  growing  afar 
To  dark  proportions  and  gigantic  shape — 
Just  as  the  figure  of  a  sheep-herd  looms, 
Awful  and  silent,  thro'  a  mountain  mist ! 

You  maybe  ken  the  rest.  At  first,  there  came 
Proud  letters,  swiftly  writ,  telling  how  folk 
Now  roundly  call'd  him  '  Poet,'  holding  out 
Bright  pictures,  which  we  smiled  at  wearily — 
As  people  smile  at  pictures  in  a  book, 
Untrue  but  bonnie.  Then  the  letters  ceased, 
There  came  a  silence  cold  and  still  as  frost, — 
We  sat  and  hearken'd  to  our  beating  hearts, 
And  pray'd  as  we  had  never  prav'd  before. 
Then  lastly,  on  the  silence  broke  the  news 
That  Andrew,  far  awa',  was  sick  to  death, 
And,  weary,  weary  of  the  noisy  streets, 
With  aching  head  and  weary  hopeless  heart, 
Was  coining  home  from  mist  and  fog  and 

noise 
To  grassy  lowlands  and  the  caller  air. 

'Twas  strange,  'twas  strange  ! — but  this, 

the  weary  end 
Of  all  our  bonnie  biggins  in  the  clouds, 


POET  ANDREW. 


89 


Came  like  a  tearful  comfort.   Love  sprang  up 
Out  of  the  ashes  of  the  household  fire, 
Where  Hope  was  fluttering  like  the  loose 

white  film  ; 
And  Andrew,  our  own  boy,  seemed  nearer 

now 

To  this  old  dwelling  and  our  aching  hearts 
Than  he  had  ever  been  since  he  became 
Wise  with  book-learning.     With  an  eager 

pain, 
I  met  him  at  the  train  and  brought  him 

home ; 

And  when  we  met  that  sunny  day  in  hairst, 
The  ice   that  long  had  sunder'd  us  had 

thaw'd, 

We  met  in  silence,  and  our  een  were  dim. 
Ah  ! — I  can  see  that  look  of  his  this  night  ! 
Part  pain,  part  tenderness — a  weary  look 
Yearning  for  comfort  such  as  God  the  Lord 
Puts  into  parents'  een.    I  brought  him  here. 
Gently  we  set  him  down  beside  the  fire, 
And  spake  few  words,  and  hush'd  the  noisy 

house  ; 
Then  eyed  his  hollow  cheeks  and  lustrous 

een, 

His  clammy  hueless  brow  and  faded  hands, 
Blue  vein'd  and  white  like  lily-flowers.   The 

wife 

Forgot  the  sickness  of  his  face,  and  moved 
With  light  and  happy  footstep  but  and  ben, 
As  though  she  welcomed  to  a  merry  feast 
A  happy  guest.    In  time,  out  came  the  truth  : 
Andrew  was  dying  :  in  his  lungs  the  dust 
Of  cities  stole  unseen,  and  hot  as  fire 
Burnt — like  a  deil's  red  een  that  gazed  at 

Death. 

Too  late  for  doctor's  skill,  tho'  doctor's  skill 
We  had  in  plenty  ;  but  the  ill  had  ta'en 
Too  sure  a  grip.   Andrew  was  dying,  dying  : 
The  beauteous  dream  had  melted  like  a  mist 
The  sunlight  feeds  on  :  a1  remaining  now 
1    Was  Andrew,  bare  and  barren  of  his  pride, 
Stark  of  conceit,  a  weel-beloved  child, 
Helpless  to  help  himsel',  and  dearer  thus, 
As  when  his  yaumer  * — like  the  corn-eraik's 

cry 

Heard  in  a  field  of  wheat  at  dead  o'  night — 
Brake  on  the  hearkening  darkness  of  the 

bield. 

And  as  he  nearer  grew  to  God  the  Lord, 
*  Yaumer,  a  child's  cry. 


Nearer  and  dearer  ilka  day  he  grew 
To  Mysie  and  mysel" — our  own  to  love, 
The  world's  no  longer.     For  the  first  last 

time, 

We  twa,  the  lad  and  I,  could  sit  and  crack 
With  open  hearts — free-spoken,  at  our  ease  ; 
I  seem'd  to  know  as  muckle  then  as  he, 
Because  I  was  sae  sad. 

Thus  grief,  sae  deep 
It  flow'd  without  a  murmur,  brought  the 

balm 
Which  blunts  the  edge  of  worldly  sense  and 

makes 

Old  people  weans  again.     In  this  sad  time, 
We  never  troubled  at  his  childish  ways  ; 
We  seem'd  to  share  his  pleasure  when  he  sat 
List'ning  to  birds  upon  the  eaves  ;  we  felt 
Small  wonder  when  we  found  him  weeping 

o'er 
His  old  torn  books  of  pencill'd  thoughts  and 

verse  ; 

And  if,  outbye,  I  saw  a  bonnie  flower, 
I  pluckt  it  carefully  and  bore  it  home 
To  my  sick  boy.   To  me,  it  somehow  seem'd 
His    care    for   lovely  earthly   things    had 

changed — 
Changed  from  the  curious  love  it  once  had 

been, 

Grown  larger,  bigger,  holier,  peacefuller ; 
And  though  he  never  lost  the  luxury 
Of  loving  beauteous  things  for  poetry's  sake, 
His  heart  was  God  the  Lord's,  and  he  was 

calm. 
Death  came  to  lengthen  out  his    solemn 

thoughts 

Like  shadows  to  the  sunset.     So  we  ceased 
To  wonder.     What  is  folly  in  a  lad 
Healthy  and  heartsome,  one  with  work  to 

do, 

Befits  the  freedom  of  a  dying  man.  .  . 
Mother,  who  chided  loud  the  idle  lad 
Of  old,  now  sat  her  sadly  by  his  side, 
And  read  from  out  the  Bible  soft  and  low, 
Or  lilted  lowly,  keeking  in  his  face, 
The  old  Scots  songs  that  made  his  een  so 

dim  ! 

I  went  about  my  daily  work  as  one 
Who  waits  to  hear  a  knocking  at  the  door, 
Ere  Death  creeps  in  and  shadows  those  that 

watch  ; 
And  seated  here  at  e'en  i'  the  ingleside, 


IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS   OF  INVERBURN. 


'sbook? 


I  watch'd  the  pictures  in  the  fire  and  smoked 
My  pipe  in  silence  ;  for  my  head  was  fu' 
Of  many  rhymes  the  lad  had  made  of  old 
(Rhymes  I  had  read  in  secret,  as  I  said), 
No  one  of  which  I  minded  till  they  came 
Unsummon'd,  murmuring  about  my  ears 
Like  bees  among  the  leaves. 

The  end  drew  near. 

Came  Winter  moaning,  and  the  Doctor  said 
That  Andrew  couldna  live  to  see  the  Spring  ; 
And  day  by  day,  while  frost  was  hard  at 

work, 

The  lad  grew  weaker,  paler,  and  the  blood 
Came  redder  from  the  lung.  One  Sabbath 

day — 

The  last  of  winter,  for  the  caller  air 
Was  drawing  sweetness  from  the  barks  of 

trees — 

When  down  the  lane,  I  saw  to  my  surprise 
A  snowdrop  bjooming  underneath  a  birk, 
And  gladly  pluckt  the  flower  to  carry  home 
To  Andrew.    Ere  I  reach'd  the  bield,  the 

air 

Was  thick  wi'  snow,  and  ben  in  yonder  room 
I  found  him,  Mysie  seated  at  his  side, 
Drawn  to  the  window  in  the  old  arm-chair, 
Gazing  with  lustrous  een  and  sickly  cheek 
Out  on  the  shower,  that  waver'd  softly  down 
In  glistening  siller  glamour.   Saying  nought, 
Into  his  hand  I  put  the  year's  first  flower, 
And  turn'd  awa'  to  hide  my  face  ;  and  he  .  . 
.  .  He  smiled  .  .  and  at  the  smile,  I  knew 

not  why, 

It  swam  upon  us,  in  a  frosty  pain, 
The  end  of  a'  was  come  at  last,  and  Death 
Was  creeping  ben,  his  shadow  on  our  hearts. 
We  gazed  on  Andrew,  call'd  him  by  his 

name, 

And  touch'd  him  softly .  .  and  he  lay  awhile, 
His  een  upon  the  snow,  in  a  dark  dream, 
Yet  neither  heard  nor  saw  ;  but  suddenly, 
He  shook  awa'  the  vision  wi'  a  smile, 
Raised  lustrous  een,  still  smiling,  to  the  sky, 
Next  upon  us,  then  dropt  them  to  the  flower 
That  trembled  in  his  hand,  and  murmur'd 

low, 

Like  one  that  gladly  murmurs  to  himsel' — 
'  Out  of  the  Snow,  the  Snowdrop— out  of 

Death 
Comes  Life  ; '  then  closed  his  eyes  and  made 

a  moan, 
And  never  spake  another  word  again. 


- 


.  .  And  you  think  weel  of  Andrew's  book 

You  think 
That  folk  will  love  him,  for  the  poetry's 

sake, 

Many  a  year  to  come  ?    We  take  it  kind 
You  speak  so  weel  of  Andrew  ! — As  for  me, 
I  can  make  naething  of  the  printed  book  ; 
I  am  no  scholar,  sir,  as  I  have  said, 
And  Mysie  there  can    just  read  print   a 

wee. 

Ay  !  we  are  feckless,  ignorant  of  the  world  ! 
And  though  'twere  joy  to  have  our  boy  again 
And  place  him  far  above  our  lowly  house, 
We  like  to  think  of  Andrew  as  he  was 
When,  dumb  and  wee,  he  hung  his  helpless 

arms 
Round   Mysie's  neck  ;   or — as  he    is 

night — 

Lying  asleep,  his  face  to  heaven — asleep, 
Near  to  our  hearts,  as  when  he  was  a  bairn, 
Without  the  poetry  and  human  pride 
That  came  between  us  to  our  grief,  langsyne! 


WHITE  LILY  OF   WE  A  RD  ALE- 
HEAD. 

THE  ELVES. 

ALL  day  the  sunshine  loves  to  dwell 
Upon  the  pool  of  Weardale  Well ; 
But  when  the  sunbeams  shine  no  more 

The  Monk  stalks  down  the  moonlit  dell  : 
His  robe  is  black,  his  hair  is  hoar, 

He  sits  him  down  by  Weardale  Well ; 
He  hears  the  water  moan  below, 
He  sees  a  face  as  white  as  snow, 
His  nightly  penance  there  is  done, 
And  he  shall  never  see  the  sun. 

THE   MONK. 

Hear  them,  old  Anatomy  ! 
Down  the  glade  I  see  them  flee — 
White-robed  Elfins,  three  times  three  1 

THE   ELVES. 

Night  by  night,  in  pale  moonlight, 
The  Monk  shall  tell  his  story  o'er, 

And  the  grinning  Gnome  with  teeth  of  white 
Hearkeneth  laughing  evermore ; 

His  nightly  penance  thus  is  done— 

And  he  shall  never  see  the  sun  1 


WHITE  LILY  OF   WEARDALE-HEAD. 


THE  GNOME. 

Ever  new  and  ever  old, 
Comrade,  be  thy  story  told, 
While  the  face  as  white  as  snow 
Sighs  upon  the  pool  below. 

THE  MONK. 

1 1  love  the  sunshine,'  said 
White  Lily  of  Weardale-head. 

And  underneath  the  greenwood  tree, 

She  wander'  free,  she  wander'd  bold  ; 
The  merry  sun  smiled  bright  to  see, 

And  turn'd  her  yellow  hair  to  gold  : 
Then  the  bee,    and   the   moth,    and   the 
butterfly 

Hunting  for  sweets  in  the  wood-bowers 

fair, 
Rose  from  the  blooms  as  she  wander'd  by, 

And  played  in  the  light  of  her  shining  hair. 
She  sat  her  down  by  Weardale  Well, 
And  her  gleaming  ringlets  rustled  and  fell, 
Clothing  her  round  with  a  golden  glow, 
And  her  shadow  was  light  for  the  pool  below; 
Then  the  yellow  adder  fold  in  fold 
Writhed  from  his  lair  in  the  grass  and  roll'd 
With  glittering  scales  in  a  curl  o'  the  gold  : 
She  stroked  his  head  with  her  finger  light, 

And  he  gazed  with  still  and  glistening  eye; 
And  she  laught  and  clapt  her  hands  of  white, 
And  overhead  the  sun  went  by 
Thro'  the  azure  gulfs  of  a  cloudless  sky  ; 
'  All  things  that  love  the  sun,  love  me, 
And  O  but  the  sun  is  sweet  to  see, 
And  I  love  to  look  on  the  sun,'  said  she. 

But  the  Abbess  gray  of  Lintlin  Brae 
Hated  to  look  on  the  light  of  day  ; 
She  mumbled  prayers,  she  counted  beads, 

She  whipt  and  whipt  her  shoulders  bare, 
She  slept  on  a  bed  of  straw  and  reeds, 

And  wore  a  serk  of  horse's  hair. 
By  candle-light  she  sat  and  read, 

And  heard  a  song  from  far  away, 
She  cross' d  herself  and  raised  her  head — 

'Who  sings  so  loud?'  said  the  Abbess 

gray. 

I,  who  sat  both  early  and  late 
A  shadow  black  at  the  Abbey  gate, 
1  Mater  sacra,  it  is  one 
Who  wanders  evermore  in  the  sun, 


A  little  maiden  of  Weardale-head, 

Whose  father  and  mother  have  long  been 

dead, 
But    she  loves   to   wander  in   greenwood 

bowers, 

Singing  and  plucking  the  forest  flowers.' 
The  Abbess  frown'd,  half  quick,  half  dead, 
'  There  is  a  sin  !'  the  Abbess  said. 

I  found  her  singing  a  ditty  wild, 

Her  gleaming  locks  around  her  roll'd  ; 
I  seized  her  while  she  sang  and  smiled, 

And  dragged  her  along  by  the  hair  of  gold: 
The  moth  and  butterfly,  fluttering, 

Follow' d  me  on  to  Lintlin  Brae, 
The  adder  leapt  at  my  heart  to  sting, 

But  with  sandall'd  heel  I  thrust  it  away  ; 
And  the  bee  dropt  down  ere  I  was  'ware 
On  the  hand  that  gript  the  yellow  hair, 
And  stang  me  deep,  and  I  cursed  aloud, 
And  the  sun  went  in  behind  a  cloud  ! 

THE  ELVES. 

Nightly  be  his  penance  done ! 
He  shall  never  see  the  sun  ! 

THE  MONK. 

The  cell  was  deep,  the  cell  was  cold, 
It  quench' d  the  light  of  her  hair  of  gold  ; 
One  little  loop  alone  was  there, 

One  little  eye-hole  letting  in 

A  slender  ray  of  light  as  thin 
As  a  tress  of  yellow  hair. 

'  Oh  for  the  sunshine  ! '  said 
White  Lily  of  Weardale-head  ; 
And  in  the  dark  she  lay, 

Reaching  her  fingers  small 
To  feel  the  little  ray 

That  glimmer' d  down  the  wall. 

And  while  she  linger'd  white  as  snow 
She  heard  a  fluttering  faint  and  low  ; 
And  stealing  thro'  the  looplet  thin 
The  moth  and  butterfly  crept  in — 
With  golden  shadows  as  they  flew 

They  waver' d  up  and  down  in  air» 
Then  dropping  slowly  ere  she  knew, 

Fell  on  her  eyes  and  rested  there : 
And  O  she  slept  with  balmy  sighs, 

Dreaming  a  dream  of  golden  day, 
The  shining  insects  on  her  eyes, 

Their  shadows  on  her  cheeks,  she  lay  ; 


IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  IN  VERB  URN. 


- 


And  while  she  smiled  on  pleasant  lands, 

On  the  happy  sky  and  wood  and  stream, 
I,  creeping  in  with  outstretch'd  hands, 

Murder 'd  the  things  that   brought  the 

dream. 

She  woke   and  stretch'd   her   hands  and 
smiled, 

Then  gazed  around  with  sunless  eyes, 
Her  white  face  gloom'd,  her  heart  went  wild, 

She  sank  with  tears  and  sighs. 
'  Oh  for  the  sunshine  ! '  said 
White  Lily  of  Weardale-head. 

And  while  she  lay  with  cries  and  tears, 
There  came  a  humming  in  her  ears  ; 
And  stealing  through  the  looplet  thin 
The  yellow  honey-bee  crept  in, 
And  hover'd  round  with  summer  sound 

Round  and  around  the  gloomy  eel!  ; 

Then  softly  on  her  lips  he  fell, 
And  moisten'd  them  with  sweetness  found 

Among  the  flowers  by  Weardale  Well ; 
And  O  she  smiled  and  sang  a  song, 

And  closed  her  eyelids  in  the  shade, 
And  thought  she  singing  walkt  among 

The  lily-blooms  in  the  greenwood  glade. 
I  heard  the  song  and  downward  crept, 

And  enter'd  cold  and  black  as  sin, 
And  slew,  although  she  raved  and  wept, 

The  bee  that  brought  the  sweetness  in  : 
'  Oh  for  the  sunshine  ! '  said 
White  Lily  of  Weardale-head. 

And  while  she  lay  as  white  as  snow 
She  heard  a  hissing  sad  and  low ; 
And  writhing  through  the  looplet  thin 
The  little  yellow  snake  crept  in  : 
His  golden  coils  cast  shadows  dim, 

With  glistening  eye  he  writhed  and  crept, 
And  while  she  smiled  to  welcome  him, 

Into  her  breast  he  stole,  and  slept ; 
And  O  his  coils  fell  warm  and  sweet 
Upon  her  heart  and  husht  its  beat, 
And  softest  thrills  of  pleasure  deep 
Ran  through  her,  though  she  could  not  sleep, 
But  lay  with  closed  eyes  awake, 
Her  little  hand  upon  the  snake — 
'  All  things  that  love  the  sun,  love  me, 
And  O  but  the  sun  is  sweet  to  see  ! 
And  I  long  to  look  on  the  sun,'  said  she. 

Then  down,  on  sandall'd  foot,  I  crept, 
To  kill  the  snake  that  heal'd  the  pang, 


But  up,  with  waving  arms,  she  leapt, 

And  out  across  the  threshold  sprang, 
And  up  the  shadowy  Abbey  stairs, 
Past  the  gray  Abbess  at  her  prayers, 
Through   the  black  court  with  leap  and 

run, 

Out  at  the  gate,  and  into  the  sun  ! 
There  for  a  space  she  halted,  blind 

With  joy  to  feel  the  light  again, 
But  heard  my  rushing  foot  behind 

And  sped  along  the  Abbey  lane  ; 
The  sunshine  made  her  strong  and  fleet, 

As  on  she  fled  by  field  and  fold, 
Her  shining  locks  fell  to  her  feet 

In  ring  on  ring  of  living  gold  ; 
But  the  sun  went  in  behind  a  cloud, 

As  I  gript  her  by  the  shining  locks, 
I  gript  them  tight,  I  laught  aloud, 

The    echoes   rang   through  woods   and 

rocks  ; 

Moaning  she  droopt,  then  up  she  sprang, 
The  adder  leapt  at  my  heart  and  stang, 
And  like  a  flash  o'  the  light  she  fell 
Into  the  depths  of  Weardale  Well ! 
The  adder  stang  with  fatal  fang. 
Around  1  whirl'd  and  shriek'd  and  sprang, 

Then  tell  and  struggled,  clenching  teeth  ; 
Then  to  the  oozy  grass  I  clang, 

And  gazed  upon  the  pool  beneath  ; 
The  white  death-film  was  on  mine  eye, 
Yet  look'd  1  down  in  agony  ; 
And  as  1  look'd  in  throes  of  death, 
In  shining  bubbles  rose  her  breath 
And  burst  in  little  rings  of  light, 

And  upward  came  a  moaning  sound  ; 
But  suddenly  the  sun  shone  bright, 

And  all  the  place  was  gold  around, 
And  to  the  surface,  calm  and  dead, 
Uprose  White  Lily  of  Weardale-head  : 
Her  golden  hair  around  her  blown 
Made  gentle  radiance  of  its  own  ; 
Her  face  was  turn'd  to  the  summer  sky 

With  smile  that  seem'd  to  live  and  speak, 
The  golden  moth  and  butterfly, 

With  glowing  shadows,  on  her  cheek  ; 
And  lying  on  her  lips  apart 

The  honey-bee  with  wings  of  gold, 
And  sleeping  softly  on  her  heart 

The  yellow  adder  fold  in  fold  ; 
And  as  I  closed  mine  eyes  to  die, 
Overhead  the  sun  went  by 
Through  the  azure  gulfs  of  a  cloudless 
sky  I 


WHITE   LILY  OF   WEARDALE-HEAD. 


93 


THE  ELVES. 

All  day  the  sunshine  loves  to  dwell 
Upon  the  sleep  of  Weardale  Well ; 
All  day  there  is  a  gentle  sound, 

And  little  insects  pause  and  sing, 
The  butterfly  and  moth  float  round, 

The  bee  drops  down  with  humming  wing, 
And  all  the  pool  lies  clear  and  cold, 
Yet  glittering  like  hair  of  gold. 
All  day  the  Monk  in  hollow  shell 

Lies  dumb  among  the  Abbey-tombs, 

While,  in  the  grass  and  foxglove-blooms, 
The  adder  basks  by  Weardale  Well ; 
But  the  adder  stings  his  heart  by  night : 

His  tale  is  told,  his  penance  done, 
His  eyes  are  dark,  they  long  for  light, 

Yet  they  shall  never  see  the  sun  ! 


THE  ENGLISH  HUSWIFE^S 
GOSSIP. 

A  ploughman's  English  wife,  bright-eyed,  sharp- 

speech'd, 

Plump  as  a  pillow,  fresh  as  clothes  new-bleach'd  : 
The  firelight  dancing  ruddy  on  her  cheeks, 
Irons  Tom's  Sunday  linen  as  she  speaks. 

AT  three-and-forty,  simple  as  a  child, 
Soft  as  a  sheep  yet  curious  as  a  daw, 
Wise,  cunning,  in  a  fashion  of  his  own, 
Queer,   watchful,    strange,   a  puzzle  to  us 

all:— 
That's  John  ! 

My  husband's  brother— seven  years 
Younger  than  Tom.     When  we  were  newly 

wed, 
John  came  to  dwell  with  Tom  and  me  for 

good, 

And  now  has  dwelt  beside  us  twenty  years, 
But  now,  at  forty-three,  is  breaking  fast, 
Grows  weaker,  brain  and  body,  every  day. 
At  times  he  works,  and  earns  his  meat  and 

drink, 

At  times  is  sick,  and  lies  and  moans  in  bed, 
Beside  the  noisy  racket  up  and  down 
He  makes  when  he  is  glad.     A  natural ! 
Man-bodied,  but  in  many  things  a  child  ; 
Unfinish'd  somewhere  —  where,   the  Lord 

knows  best 


Who  made  and  guards  him ;  wiser,  craftier, 

Than  Tom,  or  any  other  man  I  know, 

In  tiny  things  few  men  perceive  at  all ; 

No  fool  at  cooking,  clever  at  his  work, 

Thoughtful  when  Tom  is  senseless  and  un- 
kind, 

Kind  with  a  grace  that  sweetens  silent- 
ness, — 

But  weak  when  other  working-men  are 
strong, 

And  strong  where  they  are  weak.  An  angry 
word 

From  one  he  loves, — and  off  he  creeps  in 
pain — 

Perhaps  to  ease  his  tender  heart  in  tears. 

But  easy-sadden'd,  sir,  is  easy-pleased ! 

Give  him  the  babe  to  nurse,  he  sits  him 
down, 

Smiles  like  a  woman,  and  is  glad  at  heart. 

Crazed?    There's  the  question  !    Mister 

Mucklewraith, 
Yourfriend — and  John's  as  well — will  answer 

'No!' 

And  often  has  he  scolded  when  I  seem'd 
To  answer  '  Yea.'     Of  late  the  weary  limbs 
Have  tried  the  weary  brain,  that  every  day 
Grows  feebler,  duller  ;  yet  the  Minister 
Still  stands  his  friend  and  helps  him  as  he 

can. 

'Tender  of  heart,'  says  Mister  Muckle- 
wraith, 

'  Tender  of  heart,  goodwife,  is  wise  of  head: 
If  John  is  weak,  his  heart  is  to  be  blamed ; 
And  can  the  erring  heart  of  mortal  be 
O'er  gentle  ? '     Hey,  'tis  little  use  to  talk  ! 
The  Minister  is  soft  at  heart  as  he  ! 

Talk  of  the  .  .  .  John  !  and  home  again 

so  soon  ? 

The  children  are  at  school,  the  dinner  o'er, 
Tom  still  is  busy  working  at  the  plough. 
Weary  ? — then  sit  you  down  and  rest  awhile. 
John  fears  all  strangers — is  ashamed  to 

speak — 

But  stares  and  counts  his  fingers  o'er  as  now, 
Yet — trust  him  ! — when  you  vanish  he  will 

tell 
The  colour  of  your  hair,  your  hat,  your 

clothes, 

The  number  of  the  buttons  on  your  coat — 
Eh,  John  ? — he  laughs — as  sly  as  sly  can  be  I 


94 


IDYLS  AND   LEGENDS   OF  INVERBURN. 


Now,  run  to  Tom — as  quickly  as  you  can — 
Say  he  is  wanted  by  the  gentleman 
[Tom  knows  the  name]  from  Mister  Muckle- 
wraith's. 

Off,  like  an  arrow  from  a  bow,  you  see  ! 
That's  nothing !    John  would  run  until  he 

dropt 

For  me,  and  need  no  thanking  but  a  smile, 
Would  work  and  work  his  fingers  to  the 

bone, 

Do  aught  I  asked,  without  or  in  the  house, — 
And  just  because  I  cheer  him  merrily 
And  speak  him  kindly.    Tom  he  little  likes, 
And  would  not  budge  a  single  step  to  serve, 
For  Tom  is  rough,  and  says  I  humour  him, 
And  mocks  him  for  his  silly  childish  ways. 
And  Tom  has  reason  to  be  wroth  at  times  ! 
But  yesterday  John  sat  him  on  a  stool, 
And  ripp'd  the  bellows  up,   to  find  from 

where 

The  wind  came !  slowly  did  it  bit  by  bit, 
As  sage  as  Solomon,  and  when  'twas  done 
Just  scratch'd  his  head,  still  puzzled,  creep- 
ing off 

To  some  still  corner  in  the  meadow,  there 
To  think  the  puzzle  out  in  peace  alone  ! 
There  is  his  weakness — curiosity  ! 
Those  watchful,  prying,  curious  eyes  of  his, 
That  like  a  cat's  see  better  in  the  dark, 
Are  ne'er  at  rest ;  his  hands  and  eyes  and 

ears 
Are  eager  getting  knowledge, — when  'tis 

got 

Lord  knoweth  in  what  corner  of  his  head 
He  hides  it,  but  it  ne'er  sees  light  again  ! 

Oft  he  reminds  me  of  a  painter  lad 
Who  came  to  Inverburn  a  summer  since, 
Went  poking  everywhere  with  pallid  face, 
Thought,  painted,  wander'd  in  the  woods 

alone, 

Work'd  a  long  morning  at  a  leaf  or  flower, 
And  got  the  name  of  clever.  John  and  he 
Made  friends — a  thing  I  never  could  make 

out ; 

But,  bless  my  life !  it  seem'd  to  me  the  lad 
Was  just  a  John  who  had  learnt  to  read  and 

paint ! 

He  buys  a  coat :  what  does  he  first,  but 

count 
The  pockets  and  the  buttons  one  by  one— 


A  mighty  calculation  sagely  summ'd  ; 
Our  eldest  daughter  goes  to  Edinglass, 
Brings  home  a  box — John  eyes  the  box  with 

greed, 

And  next,  we  catch  him  in  the  lassie's  room, 
The  box  wide  open,  John  upon  the  floor, 
And  in  his  hand  a  bonnet,  eyed  and  eyed, 
Turn'd  o'er  and  o'er,  examined  bit  by  bit, 
Like  something  wondrous  as  a  tumbled  star! 
Our  youngest  has  a  gift— a  box  of  toys, 
A  penny  trumpet — not  a  wink  for  John 
Till  he  has  seen  the  whole,  or  by  and  by 
He  gives  the  child  a  sixpence  for  the  toy, 
And  creeps  away  and  cuts  it  up  to  bits 
In  wonder  and  in  joy.     It  makes  me  cry 
For  fun  to  watch  his  pranks,  the  natural ! 
But  think  not,  sir,  that  he  was  ever  so  : — 
Nay  !  twenty  years  ago  but  few  could  tell 
That  he  was  simpler  than  the  rest  of  men — 
His  step  was  firm,  he  kept  his  head  erect, 
Could  hold  his  tongue,  because  he  knew  full 

well 

That  he  was  not  so  clever  as  the  rest. — 
Now,  when  his  wits  have  gone  so  fast  asleep, 
He  thinks  he  is  the  wisest  man  of  men  1 
Yet,  sir,  his  heart  is  kindly  to  the  core, 
Tho'  sensitive  to  touch  as  fly-trap  flowers  : 
He  loves  them  best  that  seem  to  think  him 

wise, 
Consult  him,  notice  him,  and  those  that 

mock 

His  tenderness  he  never  will  forgive. 
Money  he  saves  to  buy  the  children  gifts — 
Clothes,  toys,  whate'er  he  fancies  like  to 

please — 

And  many  of  his  ways  so  tender  are, 
So  gentle  and  so  good,  it  fires  my  blood 
To  see  him  vex'd  and  troubled.  Just  a  child  ! 
He  weeps  in  silence,  if  a  little  ill ; 
A  cold,  a  headache — he  is  going  to  die  ; 
But  then,  again,  he  can  be  trusted,  sir  ! 
(Ye  cannot  say  the  like  of  many  men  !) 
Tell  him  a  secret, — torture,  death  itself, 
Would  fail  to  make  him  whisper  and  betray. 

Nay,  sit  you  down— and  smoke?     Ay, 

smoke  your  fill : 

Both  John  and  father  like  their  cutty-pipe  ; 
Tom  will  be  here  as  fast  as  he  can  come  ; 
And  I  can  chat  and  talk  as  well  as  work. 

John,  simple  as  he  is,  has  had  his  cares  : 
They  came  upon  him  in  his  younger  days 


THE  ENGLISH  H  US  WIPERS  GOSSTP. 


95 


When  he  was  tougher-hearted,  and  I  think 
They  help'd  to  make  him  silly  as  he  is  : 
Time  that  has  stolen  all  his  little  wits, 
By  just  a  change  of  chances,  might  have 

made 
Our  John  another  man  and  strengthen'd 

him  ; 
The  current  gave  a  swirl,  and  caught  the 

straw, 

And  John  was  doom'd  to  be  a  natural ! 
Oft  when  he  sits  and  smokes  his  pipe  and 

thinks, 
I  know  by  his  downcast  eyes  and  quivering 

lips 

His  heart  is  aching  ;  but  he  ne'er  complains 
Of  that — the  sorest  thought  he  has  to  bear. 
I  know  he  thinks  of  Jessie  Glover  then  ; 
But  let  him  be,  till  o'er  his  head  the  cloud 
Passes,  and  leaves  a  meekness  and  a  hush 
Upon  the  heart  it  shadow' d.     Jessie,  sir? — 
She  was  a  neighbour's  daughter  in  her  teens, 
A  bold  and  forward  huzzie,  tho'  her  face 
Was  pretty  in  its  way  :  a  jet-black  eye, 
I-  ed  cheeks,  black  eyebrows,  and  a  comely 

shape 

The  petticoat  and  short-gown  suited  well. 
In  here  she  came  and  stood  and  talk'd  for 

hours 

[Her  tongue  was  like  a  bell  upon  a  sheep  — 
Her  very  motion  seem'd  to  make  it  jing] 
And,  ere  1  guess'd  it,  John  and  she  were 

friends. 

She  pierced  the  silly  with  her  jet-black  eye, 
Humour'd  him  ever,  seem'd  to  think  him 

wise, 

Was  serious,  gentle,  kindly,  to  his  face, 
And,  ere  I  guess'd,  so  flatter'd  his  conceit 
That,  tho'  his  lips  were  silent  at  her  side, 
He  grew  a  mighty  man  behind  her  back, 
Held  up  his  head  in  gladness  and  in  pride, 
And  seem'd  to  have  an  errand  in  the  world. 
At  first  I  laugh'd  and  banter'd  with  the  rest — 
'How's   Jessie,  John?'  and   'Name  the 

happy  day  ; ' 

And,  '  Have  ye  spoken  to  the  minister?' 
Thinking  it  just  a  joke  ;  and  when  the  lass 
Would  sit  by  John,  her  arm  about  his  neck, 
Holding  his  hand  in  hers,  and  humour  him, 
Yet  laugh  her  fill  behind  the  silly's  back, 
I  let  it  pass.     I  little  liked  her  ways— 
I  guess'd  her  heart  was  tough  as  cobbler's 

wax — 
Vet  what  of  that  ?— •  'Twas  but  a  piece  of  fun. 


A  piece  of  fun  ! — 'Twas  serious  work  to 

John! 

The  huzzie  lured  him  with  her  wicked  eyes, 
And  danced  about  him,  ever  on  the  watch, 
Like  pussie  yonder  playing  with  a  mouse. 
I  saw  but  little  of  them,  never  dream'd 
They  met  unknown  to  me  ;  but  by  and  by 
The  country-side  was  ringing  with  the  talk 
That  John  and  she  went  walking  thro"  the 

fields, 

Sat  underneath  the  slanted  harvest  sheaves 
Watching  the  glimmer  of  the  silver  moon, 
Met  late  and  early — courted  night  and  day — 
John  earnest  as  you  please,  and  Jess  for  fun. 
I  held  my  peace  awhile,  and  used  my  eyes  ! 
New  bows  and  ribbons  upon  Jessie's  back, 
Cheap  brooches,  and  a  bonnet  once  or  twice, 
Proved  that  the  piece  of  fun  paid  Jessie  well, 
And  showed  why  John  no  longer  spent  his 

pence 

In  presents  to  the  boys.     I  saw  it  all, 
But,  pitying  John,  afraid  to  give  him  pain 
I  spake  to  Jessie,  sharply  bade  her  heed, 
Cried  '  shame '  upon  her,  for  her  heartless- 
ness. 

The  huzzie  laugh'd  and  coolly  went  her  way, 
And  after  that  came  hither  nevermore 
To  talk  and  clatter.     But  the  cruel  sport 
Went  on,  I  found.   One  day,  to  my  surprise, 
Up  came  a  waggon  to  the  cottage  door, 
John  walking  by  the  side,  and  while  I  stared 
He  quickly  carried  to  the  kitchen  here, 
A  table,  chairs,  a  wooden  stool,  a  broom, 
Two  monster  saucepans,  and  a  washing  tub, 
And  last,  a  roll  of  blankets  and  of  sheets. 
The  waggon  went  away,  here  linger'd  John 
Among  the  things,  and  blushing  red  says  he, 
I  bought  them  all  at  Farmer  Simpson's 

sale — 

Ye'll  keep  them  till  I  need  them  for  myself ! ' 
And  then  walk'd  out.     Long  time  I  stood 

and  stared, 
Puzzled,  amazed  ;  but  by-and-by  I  saw 
The  meaning  of  it  all.     Alas  for  John  ! 
The  droll  beginning  of  a  stock  in  trade 
~Forkmarriage  stood  before  me !  Jessie's  eyes 
And  lying  tongue   had    made  him  fairly 

crazed, 

And  ta'en  the  little  wits  he  had  to  spare. 
With  flashing  face,  set  teeth,  away  I  ran 
To  Jessie— found  her  washing  at  a  tub, 
Covered  with  soap-suds — and  I  told  her  all ; 
And  for  3  while  she  could  not  speak  a  word 


96 


IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  INVERBURN. 


For  laughter.      'Shame  upon  ye,  shame, 

shame,  shame ! 

Thus  to  misuse  the  lad  who  loves  ye  so  ! 
Mind,  Jessie  Glover,  folks  with  scanty  brains 
Have  hearts  that  can  be  broken  ! '   Still  she 

laugh'd ! 
While  tears  of  mirth  ran  down  her  crimson 

cheeks 

And  mingled  with  the  frothy  suds  of  soap  ; 
But,  trust  me,  sir,  I  went  not  home  again 
Till  Jessie's  parents  knew  her  wickedness  ; 
And  last,  I  wrung  a  promise  from  her  lips 
From  that  day  forth  to  trouble  John  no  more, 
To  let  him  know  her  fondness  was  a  joke, 
Pass  by  him  in  the  street  without  a  word, 
And,  though  perhaps  his  gentle  heart  might 

ache, 
Shake  him  as  one  would  shake  a  drunken 

man 
Until  his  sleepy  wits  awoke  again. 

I  watch'd  that  Jessie  Glover  kept  her  word. 

That  night,  when  John  was  seated  here 

alone, 

Smoking  his  pipe,  and  dreaming  as  I  guess'd 
Of  Jessie  Glover  and  a  wedding  ring, 
1  stole  behind  him  silently  and  placed 
My  hand  upon  his  shoulder :  when  he  saw 
The   shadow  on   my    face,    he   trembled, 

flush'd, 

And  knew  that  I  was  sad.    I  sank  my  voice, 
And  gently  as  I  could  I  spake  my  mind, 
Spake  like  a  mother,  told  him  he  was  wrong, 
That  Jessie  only  was  befooling  him 
And  laugh'd  his  love  to  scorn  behind  his 

back, 

And  last,  to  soothe  his  pain,  I  rail'd  at  her, 
Hoping  to  make  him  angry.     Here  he  sat, 
And  let  his  pipe  go  out,  and  hung  his  head, 
And  never  answer' d  back  a  single  word. 
'Twas  hard,  'twas  hard,  to  make  him  under- 
stand ! 
He  could  not,  would  not !  All  his  heart  was 

wrapt 

In  Jessie  Glover ;  and  at  twenty-three 
A  full-grown  notion  thrusts  its  roots  so  deep, 
'Tis  hard  indeed  to  drag  it  up  without 
Tearing  the  heart  as  well.    Without  a  word, 
He  crept  away  to  bed.    Next  morn,  his  eyes 
Were  red  with  weeping — but  'twas  plain  to 

see 

He  thought  I  wrong'd  both  Jessie  and  him- 
self, 


That  morning  Jessie  pass'd  him  on  th 

road: 
He  ran  to  speak— she  toss'd  her  head  and 

laugh'd — 
And  sneering  pass'd  him  by.     All  day  he 

wrought 

In  silence  at  the  plough — ne'er  had  he  borne 
A  pang  so  quietly.  At  gloaming  hour 
Home  came  he,  weary  :  here  was  I  alone : 
Stubborn  as  stone  he  turn'd  his  head  away, 
Sat  on  his  stool  before  the  fire  and  smoked ; 
Then  while  he  smoked  I  saw  his  eyes  were 

wet: 

'  John  ! '  and  I  placed  my  hand  upon  his  arm. 
He  turn'd,  seem'd  choking,  tried  in  vain  to 

speak, 

Then  fairly  hid  his  face  and  wept  aloud,— 
But  never  wept  again. 


The  days  pass'd  on. 

I  held  my  tongue,  and  left  the  rest  to  time, 
And  warn'd  both  father  and  the  boys.  My 

heart 
Was  sore  for  John  !   He  was  so  dumb  and 

sad, 

Never  complaining  as  he  did  of  old, 
And  toiling  late  and  early.     By-and-by, 
'  Jenny,'  says  he,  as  quiet  as  a  lamb, 
1  Ye'll  keep  the  things  I  bought  at  Simpson's 

sale — 

I  do  not  need  them  now  ! '  and  tried  to  smile, 
But  could  not  Well,  I  thank'd  him  cheerily, 
Nor  seem'd  to  see  his  heart  was  aching  so  : 
Then  after  that  the  boys  got  pence  from 

John, — 
The  smaller   playthings,    and    the  bigger 

clothes : 

He  eased  his  heart  by  spending  as  of  old 
His  money  on  the  like. 

Well  may  you  cry 

Shame,  shame  on  Jessie  !   Heartless,  grace- 
less lass  ! 
I  could  have  whipt  her  shoulders  with  a 

staff!— 

But  One  above  had  sorer  tasks  in  store. 
Ere  long  the  village,  like  a  peal  of  bells, 
Rang  out  the  tale  that  Jessie  was  a  thief, 
Had  gone  to  Innis  Farm  to  work  a  week, 
And  stolen  Maggie  Fleming's  watch  and 

chain— 

They  found  them  in  her  trunk  with  scores, 
of  things 


THE  ENGLISH  HUSWIF&S  GOSSIP 


97 


From  poorer  houses.     Woe  to  Jessie  then 
If  Farmer  Fleming  had  unkindly  been, 
Nor  spared  her  for  her  sickly  father's  sake  ! 
The  punishment  was  spared— she  kept  the 

shame  ! 

The  scandal  rose,  with  jingling-jangling  din, 
And  chattering  lasses,  wives,  and  mothers 

join'd. 

At  first  she  saw  not  that  the  sin  was  guess'd; 
But  slowly,  one  by  one,  her  lassie  friends, 
Her  very  bosom-gossips,  shook  her  off: 
She  heard  the  din,  she  blush'd  and  hid  her 

face, 

Shrinking  away  and  trembling  as  with  cold, 
Like  Eve  within  the  garden  when  her  mouth 
Was  bitter  with  the  apple  of  the  Tree. 

One  night,   when  John    returned  from 

work  and  took 

His  seat  upon  the  stool  beside  the  fire, 
I  saw  he  knew  the  truth.      For  he   was 

changed  ! 
His  look  was  dark,  his  voice  was  loud,  his 

eyes 
Had  lost  their  meekness  ;  when  we  spoke 

to  him, 
He  flush'd  and  answer'd  sharply.     He  had 

heard 

The  tale  of  Jessie's  shame  and  wickedness, — 
What  thought  he  of  it  all  ?   Believe  me,  sir, 
He  was  a  riddle  still  :  in  many  things 
So  peevish  and  so  simple,  but  in  one — 
His  silly  dream  of  Jessie  Glover's  face — 
So  manly  and  so  dumb, — with  power  to  hide 
His  sorrow  in  his  heart  and  turn  away 
Like  one  that  shuts  his  eyes  when  men  pass 

by 

But  looks  on  Him.     'Twas  natural  to  think 
John  would  have  taken  angry  spiteful  joy 
In  Jessie's  fall, — for  he  was  ever  slow 
Forgetting  and  forgiving  injuries  ; 
But  no  !  his  voice  was  dumb,  his  eyes  were 

fierce, 

Yet  chiefly  when  they  mention'd  Jess  in  scorn, 
He  seem'd  confused  and  would*not  under- 
stand, 
Perplext  as  when  he  breaks  the  children's 

toys. 

Now,  bold  as  Jessie  was,  she  could  not 

bear 

The  shame  her  sin  had  brought  her,  and 
whene'er 


We  met  she  tingled  to  the  finger-tips  ; 
And  soon  she  fled  away  to  Edinglass 
To  hide  among  the  smoke.    It  came  to  pass, 
The  Sabbath  after  she  had  flitted  oft', 
That  Mister  Mucklewraith  (God  bless  him  !) 

preach'd 

One  of  those  gentle  sermons  low  and  sad 
Wherewith  he  gathers  wheat  for  Him  he 

serves : 

The  text — let  him  who  is  sinless  cast  the  first 
Stone  at  the  sinner;  and  we  knew  he  preach'd 
Of  Jessie  Glover.     Hey  !  to  hear  him  talk 
Ye  would  have  sworn  that  Jessie  was  a  saint, 
An  injured  thing  for  folk  to  pet  and  coax  ! 
But  tho'  ye  know  'twas  folly,  springing  up 
Out  of  a  heart  so  kindly  to  the  core, 
Your  eyes  were  dim  with  tears  while  hearken- 
ing— 
He  spake  so  low  and  sadly.   John  was  there. 

And  early  down  the  stairs  came  John  next 

day 
Drest  in  his  Sabbath  clothes.     '  I'm  going 

away,' 

He  whispers,  '  for  a  day  or  maybe  two — 
Don't  be  afraid  if  I'm  away  at  night, 
And  do  not  speak  to  Tom  ; '  and  off  he  ran 
Ere  I  could  question.     When  the  evening 

came, 
No  sign  of  John  !     Night  pass'd,  and  not 

a  sign  ! 

Tom  sought  him  far  and  near  without  avai'. 
The  next  night  came,  and  we  were  sitting  here 
Weary  and  pensive,  wondering,  listening, 
To  every  step  that  pass'd,  when  in  stept  John, 
And  sat  beside  the  fire,  and  when  we  ask'd 
Where  he  had  been,  he  snapt  us  short  and 

crept 
Away  to  bed. 

But  by-and-by,  I  heard 
The  truth  from  John  himself — a  truth  indeed 
That  was  and  is  a  puzzle,  will  remain 
A  puzzle  to  the  end.     And  can  ye  guess 
Where  John  had  been  ?  Away  in  Edinglass, 
At  Jessie  Glover's  side,  holding  her  hand 
And  looking  in  her  eyes  ! 

'Jessie  !'  he  said  ; 
And  while  she  stared  stood  scraping  with  his 

shoes, 
And  humm'd  and  haw'd  and  stammer'd  out 

a  speech, 
Whose  sense,  made  clear  and  shorten'd, 

came  to  this  : 

H 


IDYLS  AND   LEGENDS   OF  IN  VERB  URN. 


The  country  folk  thatcall'd  her  cruel  names 
And  mock'd  her  so,  had  done  the  same  by 

him  ! 

He  did  not  give  a  straw  for  what  they  said  ! 
He  did  not  give  a  straw,  and  why  should  she? 
And  tho'  she  laugh'd  before,  perchance 

when  folk 
Miscall'd  her,  frighten'd  her  from  home  and 

friends, 

She'd  turn  to  simple  John  and  marry  him? 
For  he  had  money,  seven  pound  and  more, 
And  yonder  in  his  home,  to  stock  a  house, 
The  household  things  he  bought  at  Simp- 
son's sale  ; 
John  Thomson  paid  him  well,  and  he  could 

work, 

And,  if  she  dried  her  eyes  and  married  him, 
Who  cared  for  Tom  and  Jennie,  and  the 

folk 
That  thought  them  crazed?  .  .  John,  then 

and  now  ashamed, 

Said  that  she  flung  her  arms  about  his  neck, 
And  wept  as  if  her  heart  was  like  to  break, 
And  told  him  sadly  that  it  could  not  be. 
He  scratch'd  his   head,   and  stared,   and 

answer' d  nought — 
His  stock  of  words  was  done,  but  last,  he 

forced 

His  money  in  the  weeping  woman's  hand, 
And  hasten'd  home  as  fast  as  he  could  run. 

He  feels  it  still  1  it  haunts  him  night  and 

day  ! 

Ay,  silly  tho'  he  be,  he  keeps  the  thought 
Of  Jess  still  hidden  in  his  heart ;  and  now, 
Wearing  away  like  snowdrift  in  the  sun, 
If  e'er  he  chance  to  see,  on  nights  at  home, 
One  of  the  things  he  bought  at  Simpson's 

sale 
(I  keep  them  still,  tho'  they  are  worn  and 

old,) 
His  eyes  gleam  up,  then  glisten, — then  are 

dark. 


.    THE  FAERY  FOSTER-MOTHER. 


BRIGHT  Eyes,  Light  Eyes !  Daughter  of  a 

Fay! 
I  had  not  been  a  married  wife  a  twelvemonth 

and  a  day. 


I  had  not  nurst  my  little  one  a  month  upo 

my  knee, 
When  down  among  the  blue-bell  banks  rose 

elfins  three  times  three, 
They  gript  me  by  the  raven  hair,  I  could 

not  cry  for  fear, 
They  put  a  hempen  rope  around  my  waist 

and  dragg'd  me  here, 
They  made  me  sit  and  give  thee  suck 

mortal  mothers  can, 
Bright  Eyes,  Light  Eyes  !  strange  and  weak 

and  wan ! 

II. 

Dim  Face,  Grim  Face  !  lie  ye  there  so  still 
Thy  red  red  lips  are  at  my  breast,  and  thou 

may'st  suck  thy  fill ; 
But  know  ye,  tho'  I  hold  thee  firm,  and 

thee  to  and  fro, 
'Tis  not  to  soothe  thee  into  sleep,  but 

to  still  my  woe  ? 
And  know  ye,  when  I  lean  so  calm  against 

the  wall  of  stone, 
'Tis  when  I  shut  my  eyes  and  try  to  thi 

thou  art  mine  own  ? 
And  know  ye,  tho'  my  milk  be  here,  my 

heart  is  far  away, 
Dim  Face,  Grim  Face  !  Daughter  of  a  Fay  ! 


ill. 


. 

iU 

.rock 

:: 

ink 
my 
rl 


Gold  Hair,  Cold  Hair  !  Daughter  to  a  King ! 
Wrapt  in  bands  of  snow-white  silk  with 

jewels  glittering, 
Tiny  slippers  of  the  gold  upon  thy  feet  so 

thin, 
Silver  cradle  velvet-lined  for  thee  to  slumber 

in, 
Pigmy  pages,  crimson-hair'd,  to  serve  thee 

on  their  knees, 
To  bring  thee  toys  and  greenwood  flowers 

and  honey  bags  of  bees, — 
I  was  but  a  peasant  lass,  my  babe  had  but 

the  milk, 
Gold  Hair,  Cold  Hair  !  raimented  in  silk  ! 


Pale  Thing,  Frail  Thing !  dumb  and  weak 

and  thin, 
Altho'   thou  ne'er  dost  utter  sigh  thou'rt 

shadow'd  with  a  sin  ; 
Thy  minnie  scorns  to  suckle  thee,  thy  minnie 

is  an  elf, 
Upon  a  bed  of  rose's-leaves  she  lies  and  fans 

herself ; 


THE  FAERY  FOSTER-MOTHER—THE   GREEN  GNOME.        99 


And  though  my  heart  is  aching  so  for  one 

afar  from  me, 
I  often  look  into  thy  face  and  drop  a  tear 

for  thee, 
And  I  am  but  a  peasant  born,  a  lowly  cotter's 

wife, 
Pale  Thing,  Frail  Thing  !  sucking  at  my  life  ! 

V. 
Weak  Thing,  Meek  Thing  !  take  no  blame 

from  me, 
Altho"  my  babe  may  fade  for  lack  of  what  I 

give  to  thee  ; 
For  though  thou  art  a  stranger  thing,  and 

though  thou  art  my  woe, 
To  feel  thee  sucking  at  my  breast  is  all  the 

joy  I  know, 
It  soothes  me  tho'  afar  away  I  hear  my 

daughter  call, 
My  heart  were  broken  if  I  felt  no  little  lips 

at  all ! 
If  I  had  none  to  tend  at  all,  to  be  its  nurse 

and  slave, 
Weak  Thing,  Meek  Thing  !  I  should  shriek 

and  rave  1 

vr. 

Bright  Eyes,  Light  Eyes  !  lying  on  my  knee  ! 
If  soon  I  be  not  taken  back  unto  mine  own 

countree, 
To  feel  my  own  babe's  little  lips,  as  I  am 

feeling  thine, 
To  smoothe  the  golden  threads  of  hair,  to 

see  the  blue  eyes  shine, — 
I'll  lean  my  head  against  the  wall  and  close 

my  weary  eyes, 
And  think  my  own  babe  draws  the  milk  with 

balmy  pants  and  sighs, 
And  smile  and  bless  my  little  one  and  sweetly 

pass  away, 
Bright  Eyes,  Light  Eyes !  Daughter  of  a  Fay ! 


THE   GREEN  GNOME. 

A  MELODY. 

RING,  sing !  ring,  sing  !  pleasant  Sabbath 
bells  ! 

Chime,  rhyme  !  chime,  rhyme  !  through  the 
dales  and  dells  ! 

Rhyme,  ring  !  chime,  sing  !  pleasant  Sab- 
bath bells  ! 

Chime,  sing  !  rhyme,  ring  !  over  fields  and 
fells  ! 


And  I  gallop'd  and  I  gallop'd  on  my  palfrey 

white  as  milk, 
My  robe  was  of  the  sea-green  woof,  my  serk 

was  of  the  silk, 
My  hair  was  golden  yellow,  and  it  floated 

to  my  shoe, 
My  eyes  were  like  two  harebells  bathed  in 

shining  drops  of  dew  : 
My  palfrey,  never  stopping,  made  a  music 

sweetly  blent 
With  the  leaves  of  autumn   dropping  all 

around  me  as  I  went  ; 
And  I  heard  the  bells,  grown  fainter,  far 

behind  me  peal  and  play, 
Fainter,   fainter,    fainter,   fainter,   till  they 

seem'd  to  die  away  ; 
And  beside  a  silver  runnel,  on  a  lonely  heap 

of  sand, 
I  saw  the  green  Gnome  sitting,  with  his 

cheek  upon  his  hand  ; 
Then  he  started  up  to  see  me,  and  he  ran 

with  cry  and  bound, 
And  drew  me  from  my  palfrey  white,  and 

set  me  on  the  ground  : 

0  crimson,  crimson,  were  his  locks,  his  face 

was  green  to  see, 
But  he  cried,  '  O  light-hair'd  lassie,  you  are 

bound  to  marry  me  ! ' 
He  claspt  me  round  the  middle  small,  he 

kissed  me  on  the  cheek, 
He  kissed  me  once,  he  kissed  me  twice — I 

could  not  stir  or  speak  ; 
He  kissed  me  twice,  he  kissed  me  thrice — 

but  when  he  kissed  again, 

1  called  aloud  upon  the  name  of  Him  who 

died  for  men  ! 

Ring,  sing  !  ring,  sing  ;  pleasant  Sabbath 
bells  ! 

Chime,  rhyme  !  chime,  rhyme  !  through  the 
dales  and  dells  ! 

Rhyme,  ring  !  chime,  sing  !  pleasant  Sab- 
bath bells  ! 

Chime,  sing  !  rhyme,  ring  !  over  fields  and 
fells  ! 

O  faintly,  faintly,  faintly,  calling  men  and 

maids  to  pray, 
So  faintly,  faintly,  faintly,  rang  the  bells 

afar  away  ; 
And  as  I  named  the  Blessed  Name,  as  in 

our  need  we  can, 
The  ugly  green  green  Gnome  became  a  tall 

and  comely  man ! 

H  2 


100 


IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  INVERBURN. 


His  hands  were  white,  his  beard  was  gold, 

his  eyes  were  black  as  sloes, 
His  tunic  was  of  scarlet  woof,  and  silken 

were  his  hose  ; 
A  pensive  light  from  Faeryland  still  linger'd 

on  his  cheek, 
His  voice  was  like  the  running  brook,  when 

he  began  to  speak  : 

'  O  you  have  cast  away  the  charm  my  step- 
dame  put  on  me, 
Seven  years  I  dwelt  in  Faeryland,  and  you 

have  set  me  free  ! 
O  I  will  mount  thy  palfrey  white,  and  ride 

to  kirk  with  thee, 
And  by  those  sweetly  shining  eyes,  we  twain 

will  wedded  be  ! ' 

Back  we  gallop'd,  never  stopping,  he  before 
and  I  behind, 

And  the  autumn  leaves  were  dropping,  red 
and  yellow,  in  the  wind, 

And  the  sun  was  shining  clearer,  and  my 
heart  was  high  and  proud, 

As  nearer,  nearer,  nearer,  rang  the  kirk- 
bells  sweet  and  loud, 

And  we  saw  the  kirk  before  us,  as  we  trotted 
down  the  fells, 

And  nearer,  clearer,  o'er  us,  rang  the  wel- 
come of  the  bells  ! 

Ring,  sing  !  ring,  sing  !  pleasant  Sabbath 
bells ! 

Chime,  rhyme  !  chime,  rhyme  !  through  the 
dales  and  dells  ! 

Rhyme,  ring  !  chime,  sing  !  pleasant  Sab- 
bath bells  ! 

Chime,  sing  !  rhyme,  ring  !  over  fields  and 
fells ! 


HUGH  SUTHERLAND'S 
PANSIES. 

The  aged  Minister  of  Inverburn, 
A  mild  heart  hidden  under  features  stern, 
Leans  in  the  sunshine  on  the  garden-pale, 
Pensive,  yet  happy,  as  he  tells  this  tale, — 
And  he  who  listens  sees  the  garden  lie 
Blue  as  a  little  patch  of  fallen  sky. 

'  THE  lily  minds  me  of  a  maiden  brow,' 
Hugh  Sutherland  would  say  ;  '  the  marigold 
Is  full  and  sunny  like  her  yellow  hair, 
The  full-blown  rose  her  lips  with  sweetness 
tipt; 


But  if  you  seek  a  likeness  to  her  eyes — 
Go  to  the  pansy,  friend,  and  find  it  there  ! ' 
'  Ay,  leeze  me  on  the  pansies  ! '  Hugh  would 

say- 
Hugh    Sutherland,    the    weaver — he   who 

dwelt 

Here  in  the  white-wash'd  cot  you  fancy  so — 
Who  knew  the  learned  names  of  all  the 

flowers, 

And  recognised  the  lily,  tho'  its  head 
Rose  in  a  ditch  of  dull  Latinity  ! 

Pansies  ?    You  praise  the  ones  that  grow 

to-day 

Here  in  the  garden  :  had  you  seen  the  place 
When  Sutherland  was  living !     Here  they 

grew, 

From  blue  to  deeper  blue,  in  midst  of  each 
A  golden  dazzle  like  a  glimmering  star, 
Each  broader,  bigger,  than  a  silver  crown  ; 
While  here  the  weaver  sat,  his  labour  done, 
Watching  his  azure  pets  and  rearing  them, 
Until  they  seem'd  to  know  his  step  and 

touch, 

And  stir  beneath  his  smile  like  living  things ! 
The  very  sunshine  loved  them,  and  would 

lie 

Here  happy,  coming  early,  lingering  late, 
Because  they  were  so  fair. 

Hugh  Sutherland 
Was  country-bred — I  knew  him  from  the 

time 

When  on  a  bed  of  pain  he  lost  a  limb, 
And  rose  at  last,  a  lame  and  sickly  lad, 
Apprenticed  to  the  loom — a  peevish  lad, 
Mooning  among  the  shadows  by  himself. 
Among  these  shadows,  with  the  privilege 
Of  one  who  loved  his  flock,  I  sought  him 

out, 

And  gently  as  I  could  I  won  his  heart ; 
And  then,  tho'  he  was  young  and  I  was  old, 
We  soon  grew  friends.     He  told  his  griefs 

to  me, 

His  joys,  his  troubles,  and  I  help'd  him  on  ; 
Yet  sought  in  vain  to  drive  away  the  cloud 
Deep  pain  had  left  upon  his  sickly  cheek, 
And  lure  him  from  the  shades  that  deepen'd 

it. 

Then  Heaven  took  the  task  upon  itself 
And  sent  an  angel  down  among  the  flowers  ! 
Almost  before  I  knew  the  work  was  done, 
I  found  him  settled  in  this  but  and  ben, 


HUGH  SUTHERLAND'S  PANSIES. 


101 


Where,  with  an  eye  that  brighten'd,  he  had 

found 

The  sunshine  loved  his  garden,  and  begun 
To  rear  his  pansies. 

Sutherland  was  poor, 
Rude,  and  untutor'd  ;  peevish,  too,  when 

first 

The  angel  in  his  garden  found  him  out ; 
But  pansy-growing  made  his  heart  within 
Blow  fresh  and  fragrant.     When  he  came 

to  share 

This  cottage  with  a  brother  of  the  craft, 
Only  some  poor  and  sickly  bunches  bloom'd, 
Vagrant,  though  fair,  among  the  garden- 
plots  ; 

And  idly,  carelessly,  he  water'd  these, 
Spread  them  and  train'd  them,  till  they  grew 

and  grew 

In  size  and  beauty,  and  the  angel  thrust 
Its  bright  arms  upward  thro*  the  bright' ning 

sod, 
And    clung  around   the  sickly  gardener's 

heart. 

Then  Sutherland  grew  calmer,  and  the  cloud 
Was  fading  from  his  face.  Well,  by-and-by, 
The  country  people  saw  and  praised  the 

flowers, 

And  what  at  first  had  been  an  idle  joy 
Became  a  sober  serious  work  for  fame. 
Next,  being  won  to  send  a  bunch  for  show, 
He  gained  a  prize — a  sixth  or  seventh  rate, 
And  slowly  gath'ring  courage,  rested  not 
Till  he  had  won  the  highest  prize  of  all. 
Here  in  the  sunshine  and  the  shade  he  toil'd 
Early  and  late  in  joy,  and,  by-and-by, 
Rose  high  in  fame  ;  for  not  a  botanist, 
A  lover  of  the  flowers,  poor  man  or  rich, 
Came  to  the  village,  but  the  people  said 
1  Go  down  the  lane  to  Weaver  Sutherland's, 
And  see  his  pansies  ! ' 

Thus  the  summers  pass'd, 
And  Sutherland  grew  gentler,  happier  ; 
The  angel  God  had  sent  him  clung  to  him  : 
There  grew  a  rapturous  sadness  in  his  tone 
When  he  was  gladdest,  like  the  dewiness 
That  moistens  pansies  when  they  bloom  the 

best; 

And  in  his  face  there  dawn'd  a  gentle  light 
Like  that  which  softly  clings  about  a  flow'r, 
And  makes  you  love  it  Yet  his  heart  was 

glad 


More  for  the  pansies'  sakes  than  for  his  own: 
His  eye  was  like  a  father's,  moist  and  bright, 
When  they  were  praised  ;  and,  as  I  said, 

they  seem'd 
To  make  themselves  as  beauteous  as  they 

could, 
Smiling  to  please  him.     Blessings  on  the 

flowers ! 
They  were  his  children  !      Father  never 

loved 

His  little  darlings  more,  or  for  their  sakes 
Fretted  so  dumbly  !     Father  never  bent 
More  tenderly  above  his  little  ones, 
In  the  still  watches  of  the  night,  when  sleep 
Breathes  balm  upon  their  eyelids  !     Night 

and  day 

Poor  Hugh  was  careful  for  the  gentle  things 
Whose  presence  brought  a  sunshine  to  the 

place 
Where  sickness  dwelt :  this  one  was  weak 

and  small, 

And  needed  watching  like  a  sickly  child  ; 
This  one  so  beauteous,  that  it  shamed  its 

mates 

And  made  him  angry  with  its  beauteousness. 
'  I  cannot  rest  ! '  cried  Hughie  with  a  smile, 
1 1  scarcely  snatch  a  moment  to  myself — 
They  plague  me  so  ! '  Part  fun,  part  earnest, 

this: 

He  loved  the  pansies  better  than  he  knew. 
Ev'n  in  the  shadow  of  his  weaving-room 
They  haunted  him  and  brighten'd  on  his 

soul : 

Daily  v\  hile  busy  working  at  the  loom 
The  humming  seem'd  a  mystic  melody 
To  which  the  pansies  sweetly  grew  and 

grew — 

A  leaf  unrolling  soft  to  every  note, 
A  change  of  colours  with  the  change  of 

sound  ; 

And  walking  to  the  door  to  rest  himself, 
Still  wi.h  the  pleasant  murmur  in  his  ears, 
He  saw  the  flowers  and  heard  the  melody 
They  make  in  growing  !     Pleasure  such  as 

this, 

So  exquisite,  so  lonely,  might  have  pass'd 
Into  the  shadowy  restlessness  of  yore  ; 
But  wholesome  human  contact  saved  him 

here, 
And  kept  him  fresh  and  meek.    The  people 

came 
To  stir  him  with  their  praise,  and  he  would 

show 


102 


IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS   OF  INVERBURN. 


The  medals  and  the  prizes  he  had  got — 
As  proud  and  happy  as  a  child  who  gains 
A  prize  in  school. 

The  angel  still  remain' d 
In  winter,  when  the  garden-plots  were  bare, 
And  deep  winds  piloted  the  wandering  snow: 
He  saw  its  gleaming  in  the  cottage  fire, 
While,  with  a  book  of  botany  on  his  knee, 
He  sat  and  hunger'd  for  the  breath  of  spring. 
The  angel  of  the  flowers  was  with  him  still ! 
Here  beds  of  roses  sweeten' d  all  the  page  ; 
Here  lilies  whiter  than  the  falling  snow 
Crept  gleaming  softly  from  the  printed  lines ; 
Here  dewy  violets  sparkled  till  the  book 
Dazzled  his  eyes  with  rays  of  misty  blue  ; 
And  here,  amid  a  page  of  Latin  names, 
All  the  sweet  Scottish  flowers  together  grew 
With  fragrance  of  the  summer. 

Hugh  and  I 
Were  still  fast  friends,  and  still  I  help'dhim 

on  ; 

And  often  in  the  pleasant  summer-time, 
The  service  over,  on  the  Sabbath  day, 
I  join'd  him  in  the  garden,  where  we  sat 
And  chatted  in  the  sun.     But  all  at  once 
It  came  upon  me  that  the  gardener's  hand 
Had  grown  less  diligent ;  fortho'  'twas  June 
The  garden  that  had  been  the  village  pride 
Look'd  but  the  shadow  of  its  former  self ; 
And  ere  a  week  was  out  I  saw  in  church 
Two  samples  fairer  far  than  any  blown 
In  Hughie's  garden — blooming  brighter  far 
In  sweeter  soil.     What  wonder  that  a  man, 
Loving  the  pansies  as  the  weaver  did — 
A  skilful  judge,  moreover — should  admire 
Sweet  Mary  Moffat's  sparkling  pansy-eyes  ? 

The  truth  was  out.     The  weaver  play'd 

the  game 

(I  christen'd  it  in  sport  that  very  day) 
Of  '  Love  among  the   Pansies  ! '      As  he 

spoke, 

Telling  me  all,  I  saw  upon  his  face 
The  peevish  cloud  that  it  had  worn  in  youth  ; 
I  cheer'd  him  as  I  could,  and  bade  him  hope: 
1  You  both  are  poor,  but,  Sutherland,  God's 

flowers 
Are  poor  as  well ! '     He  brighten'd  as  I 

spoke, 

And  answer'd,  '  It  is  settled  !  I  have  kept 
The  secret  till  the  last,  lest  "  nay  "  should 

come 


And  spoil  it  all ;  but  "  ay  "  has  come  instead, 
And  all  the  help  we  wait  for  is  your  own  ! ' 

Even  here,  I  think,  his  angel  clung  to  him. 
The  fairies  of  his  garden  haunted  him 
With  similes  and  sympathies  that  made 
His  likes  and  dislikes,  though  he  knew  it 

not. 

Beauty  he  loved  if  it  was  meek  and  mild, 
And  like  his  pansies  tender  ev'n  to  tears  ; 
And  so  he  chose  a  maiden  pure  and  low, 
Who,  like  his  garden  pets,  had  love  to  spare, 
Sunshine  to  cast  upon  his  pallid  cheek, 
And  yet  a  tender  clinging  thing,  too  weak 
To  bloom  uncared  for  and  unsmiled  upon. 


Soon  Sutherland  and  she  he  loved 

one, — 

And  bonnily  a  moon  of  honey  gleam'd 
At  night  among   the  flowers  !    Amid  the 

spring 

That  follow'd,  blossom'd  with  the  other  buds 
A  tiny  maiden  with  her  mother's  eyes. 
The  little  garden  was  itself  again, 
The  sunshine  sparkled  on  the  azure  beds  ; 
The  angel  Heaven  had  sent  to  save  a  soul 
Stole  from  the  blooms  and  took  an  infant 

shape ; 
And  wild  with  pleasure,   seeing  how  the 

flowers 
Had  given  her  their  choicest  lights  an 

shades, 

The  father  bore  his  baby  to  the  font 
And  had  her  christen'd  PANSY. 


were 


: 


After  that 

Poor  Hugh  was  happy  as  the  clays  were  long, 
Divided  in  his  cares  for  all  his  pets, 
And  proudest  of  the  one  he  loved  the  best. 
The  summer  found  him  merry  as  a  king, 
Dancing  the  little  one  upon  his  knee 
Here  in  the  garden,  while  the  plots  around 
Gleam'd  in  the  sun,  and  seem'd  as  glad  as  he. 

But  moons  of  honey  wane,  and  sui..mer 

suns 

Of  wedlock  set  to  bring  the  autumn  in  ! 
Hugh  Sutherland,   with  wife  and  child  to 

feed, 

Wrought  sore  to  gain  his  pittance  in  a  world 
His  pansies  made  so  fair.     Came  Poverty 
With   haggard  eyes   to   dwell  within    the 

house ; 


HUGH  SUTHERLAND'S  PANSTES. 


103 


When  first  she  saw  the  garden  she  was 

glad, 
And,  seated  on  the  threshold,  smiled  and 

spin. 
But  times  grew  harder,  bread  was  scarce  as 

gold, 

A  shadow  fell  on  Pansy  and  the  flowers  ; 
And  when   the    strife    was    sorest,    Hugh 

received 

An  office — lighter  work  and  higher  pay — 
To  take  a  foreman's  place  in  Edinglass. 
'Twas  hard,  'twas  hard,  to  leave  the  little 

place 

He  loved  so  dearly ;  but  the  weaver  look'd 
At  Mary,  saw  the  sorrow  in  her  face, 
And  gave  consent, — happy  at  heart  to  think 
His  dear  ones  would  not  want.     To  Edin- 
glass 
They  went,  and  settled.     Thro'  the  winter 

hours 

Bravely  the  weaver  toil'd  ;  his  wife  and  child 
Were  happy,   he  was  heartsome — tho'  his 

taste 
Was  grassy  lowlands  and  the  caller  air. 

The  cottage  here  remain  d  untenanted, 
The  angel  of  the  flowers  forsook  the  place, 
The  sunshine  faded,  and  the  pansies  died. 

Two  summers  pass'd  ;  and  still  in  Edin- 
glass 

The  weaver  toil'd,  and  ever  when  I  went 
Into  the  city,  to  his  house  I  hied— 
A  welcome  guest.   Now  first,  I  saw  a  change 
Had  come  to  Sutherland  :  for  he  was  pale 
And  peevish,  had  a  venom  on  his  tongue, 
And  hung  the  under-lip  like  one  that  doubts. 
Part  of  the  truth  I  heard,  and  part  I  saw — 
But  knew  too  late,  when  all  the  ill  was  done ! 
At  first,  poor  Hugh  had  shrunk  from  making 

friends, 

And  pored  among  his  books  of  botany, 
And  later,  in  the  dull  dark  nights  he  sat, 
A  dismal  br  ok  upon  his  knee,  and  read  : 
A  book  no  longer  full  of  leaves  and  flowers, 
That  glimmer'd  on  the  soul's  sweet  con- 
sciousness, 

Yet  seem'd  to  fill  the  eye, — a  dismal  book, — 
Big-sounding  Latin,  English  dull  and  dark, 
And  not  a  breath  of  summer  in  it  all. 
The  sunshine  perish'd  in  the  city's  smoke, 
The  pansies  grew  no  more  to  comfort  him, 
And  he  began  to  spend  his  nights  with  those 


Who  waste  their  substance  in  the  public- 
house  : 

The  flowers  had  lent  a  sparkle  to  his  talk, 
Which  pleased  the  muddled  wits  of  idle  men ; 
Sought  after,  treated,  liked  by  one  and  all, 
He  took  to  drinking  ;  and  at  last  lay  down 
Stupid  and  senseless  on  a  rainy  night, 
And  ere  he  waken'd  caught  the  flaming  fire, 
Which  gleams  to  white-heat  on  the  face  and 

burns 
Clear  crimson  in  the  lungs. 

But  it  was  long, 
Ere  any  knew  poor  Hughie's  plight  ;  and, 

ere 

He  saw  his  danger,  on  the  mother's  breast 
Lay  Pansy  withering — tho'  the  dewy  breath 
Of  spring  was  floating  like  a  misty  rain 
Down  from  the  mountains.     Then  the  tiny 

flower 

Folded  its  leaves  in  silence,  and  the  sleep 
That  dwells  in  winter  on  the  flower-beds 
Fell  on  the  weaver's  house.    At  that  sad  hour 
I  enter'd,  scarcely  welcomed  with  a  word 
Of  greeting  :  by  the  hearth  the  woman  sat 
Weeping  full  sore,  her  apron  o'er  a  face 
Haggard  with  midnight  watching,  while  the 

man 

Cover'd  his  bloodshot  eyes  and  cursed  him- 
self. 

Then  leaning  o'er,  my  hand  on  his,  I  said — 
'  She  could  not  bear  the  smoke  of  cities, 

Hugh! 

God  to  His  Garden  has  transplanted  her, 
Where  summer  dwells  for  ever  and  the  air 
Is  fresh  and  pure  ! '     But  Hughie  did  not 

speak  ; 

I  saw  full  plainly  that  he  blamed  himself ; 
And  ere  the  day  was  out  he  bent  above 
His  little  sleeping  flower,   and  wept,  and 

said : 

1  Ay,  sir  !  she  wither'd,  wither'd  like  the  rest, 
Neglected  !  '  and  I  saw  his  heart  was  full. 
When  Pansy  slept  beneath  the  churchyard 

grass 

Poor  Hughie's  angel  had  return'd  to  Heaven, 
And  all  his  heart  was  dark.    His  ways  grew 

strange, 

Peevish,  and  sullen  ;  often  he  would  sit 
And  drink  alone  ;  the  wife  and  he  grew  cold, 
And  harsh  to  one  another  ;  till  at  last 
A  stern  physician  put  an  end  to  all, 
And  told  him  he  must  die. 


IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  INVERBURN. 


No  bitter  cry, 

No  sound  of  wailing  rose  within  the  house 
After  the  Doctor  spoke,  but  Mary  mourn'd 
In  silence,  Hughie  smoked  his  pipe  and  set 
His  teeth  together,  at  the  ingleside. 
Days  pass'd  ;  the  only  token  of  a  change 
Was  Hughie's  face — the  peevish  cloud  of 

care 

Seem'd  melting  to  a  tender  gentleness. 
After  a  time,  the  wife  forgot  her  grief, 
Or  could  at  times  forget  it,  in  the  care 
Her  husband's  sickness  brought.  I  went 

to  them 

As  often  as  I  could,  for  Sutherland 
Was  dear  to  me,  and  dearer  for  his  sin. 
Weak  as  he  was  he  did  his  best  to  toil, 
But  it  was  weary  work  !     By  slow  degrees, 
When   May  was  breathing  on  the  sickly 

bunch 

Of  mignonette  upon  the  window-sill, 
I  saw  his  smile  was  softly  wearing  round 
To  what  it  used  to  be,  when  here  he  sat 
Rearing  his  flowers  ;   altho'   his  brow  at 

times 

Grew  cloudy,  and  he  gnaw'd  his  under  lip. 
At  last  I  found  him  seated  by  the  hearth, 
Trying  to  read  :  I  led  his  mind  to  themes 
Of  old  langsyne,  and  saw  his  eyes  grow  dim  : 

I  O  sir,'  he  cried,  '  I  cannot,  cannot  rest ! 
Something  I  long  for,  and  I  know  not  what, 
Torments  me  night  and  day  ! '    I  saw  it  all, 
And  sparkling  with  the  brilliance  of  the 

thought, 
Look'd  in  his  eyes  and  caught  his  hand,  and 

cried, 
'  Hugh,  it's  the  pansies  !     Spring  has  come 

again, 

The  sunshine  breathes  its  gold  upon  the  air 
And   threads  it  through  the  petals  of  the 

flowers, 

Yet  here  you  linger  in  the  dark  ! '     I  ceased 
And  watch'd  him.    Then  he  trembled  as  he 

said, 

I 1  see  it  now,  for  as  I  read  the  book 

The  lines  and  words,  the  Latin  seem'd  to  bud, 
And  they  peep'd  thro'.'     He  smiled,  like 

one  ashamed, 

Adding  in  a  low  voice,  '  I  long  to  see 
The  pansies  ere  I  die  ! ' 

What  heart  of  stone 

Could  throb  on  coldly,  Sir,  at  words  like 
those? 


Not  mine,  not  mine  !    Within  a  week  poor 

Hugh 

Had  left  the  smoke  of  Edinglass  behind, 
And  felt  the  wind  that  runs  along  the  lanes, 
Spreading  a  carpet  of  the  grass  and  flowers 
For  June  the  sunny-hair'd  to  walk  upon. 
In  the  old  cottage  here  he  dwelt  again  : 
The  place  was  wilder  than  it  once  had  been, 
But  buds  were  blowing  green  around  about, 
And  with  the  glad  return  of  Sutherland, 
The  angel  of  the  flowers  came  back  again. 
The  end  was  near  and  Hugh  was  wearied 

out, 

And  like  a  flower  was  closing  up  his  leaves 
Under  the  dropping  of  the  gloaming  dews. 

And  daily,  in  the  summer  afternoon, 
I  found  him  seated  on  the  threshold  there, 
Watching  his  flowers,  and  all  the  place,  I 

thought, 
Brighten'd  when  he  was  nigh.     Now  first  I 

talk'd 

Of  heavenly  hopes  unto  him,  and  I  knew 
The  angel  help'd  me.     On  the  day  he  died 
The  pain  had  put  its  shadow  on  his  face, 
The  words  of  doubt  were  on  his  tremulous 

lips  : 

1  Ah,  Hughie,  life  is  easy  ! '  I  exclaim'd, 
'  Easier,  better,  than  we  know  ourselves  : 
'Tis  pansy-growing  on  a  mighty  scale, 
And  God  above  us  is  the  gardener. 
The  fairest  win  the  prizes,  that  is  just, 
But  all  the  flowers  are  dear  to  God  the  Lord  : 
The  Gardener  loves  them  all,  He  loves  them 

all!1 

He  saw  the  sunshine  on  the  pansy-beds 
And  brighten'd.     Then  by  slow  degrees  he 

grew 

Cheerful  and  meek  as  dying  man  could  be, 
And  as  I  spoke  there  came  from  far-away 
The  faint  sweet  melody  of  Sabbath  bells. 
And  '  Hugh,'  I  said,  '  if  God  the  Gardener 
Neglected  those  he  rears  as  you  have  done 
Your  pansies  and  your  Pansy,  it  were  ill 
For  we  who  blossom  in  His  garden.    Night 
And  morning  He  is  busy  at  His  work. 
He  smiles  to  give  us  sunshine,  and  we  live  : 
He  stoops  to  pluck  us  softly,  and  our  hearts 
Tremble  to  see  the  darkness,  knowing  not 
It  is  the  shadow  He,  in  stooping,  casts. 
He  pluckt  your  Pansy  so,  and  it  was  well. 
But,  Hugh,  though  some  be  beautiful  and 

grand, 


HUGH  SUTHERLAND'S  PANSIES—THE  DEAD  MOTHER.     105 


Some  sickly,  like  yourself,  and  mean  and 

poor, 
He  loves  them  all,  the  Gardener  loves  them 

all!' 

Then  later,  when  he  could  no  longer  sit 
Out  on  the  threshold,  and  the  end  was  near, 
We  set  a  plate,  of  pansies  by  his  bed 
To  cheer  him.   '  He  is  coming  near,'  I  said, 
'  Great  is  the  garden,  but  the  Gardener 
Is  com  ng  to  the  corner  where  you  bloom 
So  sickly  ! '     And  he  smiled,  and  moan'd, 

•  I  hear  ! ' 

And  sank  upon  his  pillow  wearily. 
His  hollow  eyes  no  longer  bore  the  light, 
The  darkness  gather'd  round  him  as  1  said, 
'  The  Gardener  is  standing  at  your  side, 
His  shade  is  on  you  and  you  cannot  see  : 

0  Lord,  that  lovest  both  the  strong  and 

weak, 

Pluck  him  and  wear  him  ! '      Even   as   I 
pray'd, 

1  felt  the  shadow  there  and  hid  my  face  ; 
But  when  I  look'd  again  the  flower  was 

pluck' d, 
The  shadow  gone :  the  sunshine  thro"  the 

blind 
Gleam'd  faintly,  and  the  widow'd  woman 

wept. 


THE  DEAD  MOTHER. 


As  I  lay  asleep,  as  I  lay  asleep, 
Under  the  grass  as  I  lay  so  deep, 
As  I  lay  asleep  in  my  cotton  serk 
Under  the  shade  of  Our  Lady's  Kirk, 
I  waken'd  up  in  the  dead  of  night, 
I  waken'd  up  in  my  death-serk  white, 
And  I  heard  a  cry  from  far  away, 
And  I  knew  the  voice  of  my  daughter  May: 
'  Mother,  mother,  come  hither  to  me  ! 
Mother,  mother,  come  hither  and  see  ! 
Mother,  mother,  mother  dear, 
Another  mother  is  sitting  here  : 
My  body  is  bruised,  and  in  pain  I  cry, 
On  straw  in  the  dark  afraid  I  lie, 
I  thirst  and  hunger  for  drink  and  meat, 
And  mother,  mother,  to  sleep  were  sweet !  ' 
I  heard  the  cry,  though  my  grave  was  deep, 
And   awoke  from  sleep,   and  awoke  from 
sleep. 


I  awoke  from  sleep,  I  awoke  from  sleep, 

Up  I  rose  from  my  grave  so  deep  ! 

The  earth  was  black,  but  overhead 

The  stars  were  yellow,  the  moon  was  red  ; 

And  I  walk'd  along  all  white  and  thin, 

And  lifted  the  latch  and  enter'd  in, 

And  reach'd  the  chamber  as  dark  as  night, 

And  though  it  was  dark  my  face  was  white  : 

1  Mother,  mother,  I  look  on  thee  ! 

Mother,  mother,  you  frighten  me  ! 

For  your  cheeks  are  thin  and  your  hair  i 

gray ! ' 

But  I  smiled,  and  kiss'd  her  fears  away, 
I  smooth'd  her  hair  and  I  sang  a  song, 
And  on  my  knee  I  rock'd  her  long  : 
1 0  mother,  mother,  sing  low  to  me — 
I  am  sleepy  now,  and  I  cannot  see  ! ' 
I  kiss'd  her,  but  I  could  not  weep, 
And  she  went  to  sleep,  she  went  to  sleep. 

in. 

As  we  lay  asleep,  as  we  lay  asleep, 
My  May  and  1,  in  our  grave  so  deep, 
As  we  lay  asleep  in  the  midnight  mirk, 
Under  the  shade  of  our  Lady's  Kirk, 
I  waken'd  up  in  the  dead  of  night, 
Though  May  my  daughter  lay  warm  and 

white, 

And  I  heard  the  cry  of  a  little  one, 
And  I  knew  'twas  the  voice  of  Hu^h  my 

son : 

1  Mother,  mother,  come  hither  to  me  ! 
Mother,  mother,  come  hither  and  see  ! 
Mother,  mother,  mother  dear, 
Another  mother  is  sitting  here  : 
My  body  is  bruised  and  my  heart  is  sad, 
But  I  speak  my  mind  and  call  them  bad  ; 
I  thirst  and  hunger  night  and  day, 
And  were  I  strong  I  would  fly  away  ! ' 
I  heard  the  cry,  though  my  grave  was  deep, 
And  awoke  from  sleep,  and  awoke  from 

sleep ! 


I  awoke  from  sleep,  I  awoke  from  sleep, 
Up  I  rose  from  my  grave  so  deep, 
The  earth  was  black,  but  overhead 
The  stars  were  yellow,  the  moon  was  red  ; 
And  I  walk'd  along  all  whke  and  thin, 
And  lifted  the  -atch  and  enter'd  in. 


io6 


IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  INVERBURN. 


'  Mother,  mother,  and  art  thou  here  ? 
I  know  your  face,  and  I  feel  no  fear  ; 
Raise  me,  mother,  and  kiss  my  cheek, 
For  oh  I  am  weary  and  sore  and  weak. ' 
I  smooth'd  his  hair  with  a  mother's  joy, 
And  he  laugh'd  aloud,  my  own  brave  boy  ; 
I  raised  and  held  him  on  my  breast, 
Sang  him  a  song,  and  bade  him  rest. 
'  Mother,  mother,  sing  low  to  me — 
I  am  sleepy  now  and  I  cannot  see  ! ' 
I  kiss'd  him,  and  I  could  not  weep, 
As  he  went  to  sleep,  as  he  went  to  sleep. 


As  I  lay  asleep,  as  I  lay  asleep, 

With  my  girl  and  boy  in  my  grave  so  deep, 

As  I  lay  asleep,  I  awoke  in  fear, 

Awoke,  but  awoke  not  my  children  dear, 

And  heard  a  cry  so  low  and  weak 

From  a  tiny  voice  that  could  not  speak  ; 

I  heard  the  cry  of  a  little  one, 

My  bairn  that  could  neither  talk  nor  run, 

My  little,  little  one,  uncaress'd, 

Starving  for  lack  of  the  milk  of  the  breast ; 

And  I  rose  from  sleep  and  enter'd  in, 

And  found  my  little  one  pinch'd  and  thin, 

And  croon'd  a  song  and  hush'd  its  moan, 

And  put  its  lips  to  my  white  breast-bone  ; 

And  the  red,  red  moon  that  lit  the  place 

Went  white  to  look  at  the  little  face, 

And  I  kiss'd  and  kiss'd,  and  I  could  not 

weep, 
As  it  went  to  sleep,  as  it  went  to  sleep. 

VI. 

As  it  lay  asleep,  as  it  lay  asleep, 
I  set  it  down  in  the  darkness  deep, 
Smooth'd  its  limbs  and  laid  it  out, 
And  drew  the  curtains  around  about ; 
Then  into  the  dark,  dark  room  I  hied 
Where  he  lay  awake  at  the  woman's  side, 
And   though    the  chamber  was  black    as 

night, 

He  saw  my  face,  for  it  was  so  white  ; 
I  gazed  in  his  eyes,  and  he  shriek'd  in  pain, 
And  I  knew  he  would  never  sleep  again, 
And  back  to  my  grave  went  silently, 
And  soon  my  baby  was  brought  to  me  ; 
My  son  and  daughter  beside  me  rest, 
My  little  baby  is  on  my  breast ; 
Our  bed  is  warm  and  our  grave  is  deep, 
But  he  cannct  sleep,  he  cannot  sleep  ! 


THE    WIDOW  MYSIE. 
AN  IDYL  OF  LOVE  AND  WHISKY. 

Tom  Love,  a  man  '  prepared  for  friend  or  foe, 
Whisker'd,  well-featured,  tight  from  top  to  toe.' 

O  WIDOW  MYSIE,  smiling,  soft,  and  sweet ! 
O  Mysie,  buxom  as  a  sheaf  of  wheat ! 
O  Mysie,  Widow  Mysie,  late  Monroe, 
Foul  fall  the   traitor-face  that  served   me 
so! 

0  Mysie  Love,  a  second  time  a  bride, 

1  pity  him  who  tosses  at  your  side — 
Who  took,  by  honied  smiles  and  speech 

misled, 
A  beauteous  bush  of  brambles  to  his  bed  ! 

You  saw  her  at  the  ploughing  match,  you 

ken, 

Ogling  the  whisky  and  the  handsome  men  : 
The  smiling  woman  in  the  Paisley  shawl, 
Plump  as  a  partridge,   and  as  broad  as 

tall, 

With  ribbons,  bows,  and  jewels  fair  to  see, 
Bursting  to  blossom  like  an  apple-tree, 
Ay,  that  was  Mysie, — now  two  score  and 

ten, 

Now  Madam  Love  of  Bungo  in  the  Glen  ! 
Ay,  that  was  Mysie,  tho'  her  looks  no  more 
Dazzle   with    beams    of  brightness   as   of 

yore  ! — 

The  tiny  imps  that  nested  in  her  eyes, 
Winning  alike  the  wanton  and  the  wise, 
Have  ta'en  the  flame  that  made  my  heart 

forlorn 
Back  to  the  nameless  place,  where  they  were 

born. 

0  years  roll  on,  and  fair  things  fade  and 

pine  ! — 

Twelve  sowings  since  and  I  was  twenty-nine  : 
With  plougliinan's  coat  on  back,  and  plough 

in  hand, 

1  wrought  at  Bungo  on  my  father's  land, 
And  all  the  neighbour-lassies,  stale  or  fair, 
Tried  hard  to  net  my  father's  son  and  heir. 
My  heart  was  lightsome,  cares  I  had  but 

few, 

I  climb'd  the  mountains,  drank  the  moun- 
tain dew, 

Could  sit  a  mare  as  mettlesome  as  fire, 
Could  put  the  stone  with  any  in  the  shire, 


THE    WIDOW  MYSIE. 


107 


Had  been  to  college,  and  had  learn' d  to 

dance, 
Could  blether  thro'  my  nose  like  folks  in 

France, 

And  stood  erect,  prepared  for  friend  or  foe, 
Whisker'd,  well-featured,  tight  from  top  to 

toe. 

'  A  marriageable  man,  for  every  claim 
Of  lawful  wedlock  fitted,'  you  exclaim? 
But,  sir,  of  all  that  men  enjoy  or  treasure, 
Wedlock,  I  fancied,  was  the  driest  pleasure. 
True  ;  seated  at  some  pretty  peasant's  side, 
Under  the  slanted  sheaves  I  loved  to  hide, 
Lilting  the  burthen  of  a  Scottish  tune, 
To  sit,  and  kiss  perchance,  and  watch  the 

moon, 

Pillow  d  on  breasts  like  beds  of  lilies  white 
Heaving  and  falling  in  the  pale  moonlight ; 
But  rather  would  have  sat  with  crimson  face 
Upon  the  cutty-stool  with  Jean  or  Grace, 
Than  buy  in  kirk  a  partner  with  the  power 
To  turn  the  mother-milk  of  Freedom  sour. 

I  loved  a  comely  face,  as  I  have  said, 

But  sharply  watch'd  the  maids  who  wish'd 

to  wed, — 

I  knew  their  arts,  was  not  so  cheaply  won, 
They  loved  my  father's  Siller,  not  his  Son. 
Still,  laughing  in  my  sleeve,  I  here  and  there 
Took  liberties  allow'd  my  father's  heir, 
Stole  kisses  from  the  comeliest  of  the  crew, 
And  smiled  upon  the  virgin  nettles  too. 
So  might  the  game  have  daunder'd  on  till 

this, 

And  lasted  till  my  father  went  to  bliss, — 
But  Widow  Mysie  came,  as  sly  as  sin, 
And  settled  in  the  '  William  Wallace '  Inn. 

The  Inn  had  gone  to  rack  and  loss  complete 
Since  Simpson  drown'd  himself  in  whisky 

neat ; 
And  poor  Jock  Watt,  who  follow'd  in  his 

shoes, 

•    Back'd  by  the  sourest,  gumliest  of  shrews, 
(The  whisky  vile,  the  water  never  hot, 
The  very  sugar  sour'd  by  Mistress  Watt,) 
Had  found  the  gossips,  grumbling,  groaning, 

stray 

To  Sandie  Kirkson's,  half  a  mile  away. 
But  hey  !  at  Widow  Mysie's  rosy  face, 
A  change  came  o'er  the  spirits  of  the  place, 


The  fire  blazed  high,  the  shining  pewter 

smiled, 

The  glasses  glitter'd  bright,  the  water  boil'd, 
Grand  was  the  whisky,  Highland  born  and 

fine, 
And  Mysie,  Widow  Mysie,  was  divine  I 

O  sweet  was  Widow  Mysie,  sweet  and  sleek  ! 

The  peach's  blush  and  down  were  on  her 
cheek, 

And  there  were  dimples  in  her  tender  chin 

For  Cupids  small  to  hunt  for  kisses  in  ; 

Dark-glossy  were  her  ringlets,  each  a  prize, 

And  wicked,  wicked  were  her  beaded  eyes  ; 

Plump  was  her  figure,  rounded  and  com- 
plete, 

And  tender  were  her  tiny  tinkling  feet ! 

All  this  was  nothing  to  the  warmth  and  light 

That  seem'd  to  hover  o'er  her  day  and 
night  ;— 

Where'er  she  moved,  she  seem'd  to  soothe 
and  please 

With  pleasant  murmurs  as  of  humble-bees  ; 

Her  small  plump  hands  on  public  missions 
flew 

Like  snow-white  doves  that  flying  croon  and 
coo  ; 

Her  feet  fell  patter,  cheep,  like  little  mice  ; 

Her  breath  was  soft  with  sugar  and  with 
spice  ; 

And  when  her  finger  -  so  ! — your  hand 
would  press, 

You  tingled  to  the  toes  with  loveliness, 

While  her  dark  eyes,  with  lessening  zone  in 
zone, 

Flasht  sunlight  on  the  mirrors  of  your  own, 

Dazzling  your  spirit  with  a  wicked  sense 

That  seem'd  more  heavenly -born  than  inno- 
cence ! 

Sure  one  so  beauteous  and  so  sweet  had 

graced 
And  cheer' d  the  scene,  where'er  by  Fortune 

placed  ; 

But  with  a  background  of  the  pewter  bright, 
Whereon  the  fire  cast  gleams  of  rosy  light, 
With  jingling  glasses  round  her,  and  a  scent 
Of  spice  and  lemon-peel  where'er  she  went, 
What  wonder  she  should  to  the  cronies  seem 
An  angel,  in  a  cloud  of  toddy  steam  ? 
What  wonder,  while  I  sipt  my  glass  one 

day, 
She,  and  the  whisky,  stole  my  heart  away  ? 


103 


IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  INVERBURN. 


She  was  not  loath  !— for,  while  her  comely 

face 

Shone  full  on  other  haunters  of  the  place, 
From  me  she  turn'd  her  head  and  peep'd 

full  sly 

With  just  the  corner  of  her  roguish  eye, 
And  blush'd  so  bright  my  toddy  seem'd  to 

glow 

Beneath  the  rosy  blush  and  sweeter  grow  ; 
And  once,  at  my  request,  she  took  a  sip, 
And  nectar'd  all  the  liquor  with  her  lip. 
'  Take  heed !  for  Widow  Mysie's  game  is 

plain,' 

The  gossips  cried,  but  warn'd  me  all  in  vain: 
Like  sugar  melting  at  the  toddy's  kiss. 
My  very  caution  was  dissolved  in  bliss, 
Fear  died  for  ever  with  a  mocking  laugh, 
And  Mysie's  kisses  made  his  epitaph. 

Kisses  ?    Ay,  faith,  they  follow'd  score  on 

score, 

After  the  first  I  stole  behind  the  door, 
And  lingered  softly  on  these  lips  of  mine 
Like  Massic  whisky  drunk  by  bards  divine. 
But  O  !  the  glow,  the  rapture,  and  the  glee, 
That  night  she  let  me  draw  her  on  my  knee — 
When  bliss  thrill'd  from  her  to  my  finger- 
tips, 

Then  eddied  wildly  to  my  burning  lips, 
From  which  she  drank  it  back  with  kisses 

fain, 
Then  blush'd  and  glow'd  and  breathed  it 

back  again — 

Till,  madden 'd  with  the  ecstasy  divine, 
I  clasp'd  her  close  and  craved  her  to  be  mine, 
And  thrilling,  panting,  struggling  up  to  fly, 
She  breathed  a  spicy  '  Yes '  with  glistening 

eye, 
And  while  my  veins  grew  fire,  my  heart 

went  wild, 
Fell  like  a  sunbeam  on  my  heart,  and  smiled! 

The  deed  thus  done,  I  hied  me  home,  you 

say, 

And  rued  my  folly  when  I  woke  next  day  ? 
Nay  !  all  my  business  was  to  crave  and  cry 
That  Heaven  would  haste  the  holy  knot  to  tie, 
Though  '  Mysie  lass,'  I  said,  '  my  gold  and 

gear 

Are  small,  and  will  be  small  for  many  a  year, 
Since  father  is  but  fifty  years  and  three, 
And  tough  as  cobbler's  wax,  though  spare 

and  vree  1 ' 


'Ah,   Tarn,'  she  sigh'd,    'there's  nothing 

there  to  rue — 

The  gold,  the  gear,  that  Mysie  wants  is  you! ' 
And  brightly  clad,  with  kisses  thrilling 

through  me, 
Clung  like  a  branch  of  trembling  blossoms 

to  me. 

I  found  my  father  making  up  his  books, 
With  yellow  eyes  and  penny-hunting  looks. 
'  Father,'  I  said,  '  I'm  sick  of  single  life, 
And  will,  if  you  are  willing,  take  a  wife.' 
'Humph,'  snapt  my  father,  '(six  and  four 

are  ten, 
And  ten  are  twenty) — Marry  ?   who  ?  and 

when  ? ' 
1  Mistress  Monroe,'  I  said,  'that  keeps  the 

inn.' 
At  that  he  shrugg'd  his  shoulders  with  a 

grin: 
'  I  guess 'd  as  much  !  the  tale  has  gone  the 

round  ! 

Ye  might  have  stay'd  till  I  was  underground! 
But  please  yourself— I've  nothing  to  refuse, 
Choose  where  you  will— you're  old  enough 

to  choose ; 

But  mind, '  he  added,  blinking  yellow  eye, 
'  I'll  handle  my  own  guineas  till  I  die  ! 
Frankly   I   own,   you  might  have    chosen 

worse, 

Since  you  have  little  siller  in  your  purse — 
The  Inn  is  thriving,  if  report  be  true, 
And  Widow  Mysie  has  enough  for  two  ! ' 

'  And  if  we  wait  till  he  has  gone  his  way, 
Why,  Mysie,  I'll  be  bald,  and  you'll  be  gray,' 
I  said  10  Mysie,  laughing  at  her  side. 
'  Oh,  let  him  keep  his  riches,'  she  replied, 
'  He's   right !   there's  plenty  here  for  you 

and  me  ! 

May  he  live  long  ;  and  happy  may  he  be  ! ' 
'  O  Mysie,  you're  an  angel,'  I  return'd, 
With  eye  that  glisten'd  dewily  and  yearn'd. 
Then  running  off  she  mixed,  with  tender 

glee, 

A  glass  of  comfort — sat  her  on  my  knee— 
'  Come,  Tarn  ! '  she  cried,  '  who  cares  a  fig 

for  wealth- 
Ay,   let  him   keep  it  all,   and  here's   his 

health ! ' 

And  added,  shining  brightly  on  my  breast, 
'Ah,  Tarn,  the  siller's  worthless— Love  is 

best ! ' 


THE    WIDOW  MYSIE. 


109 


O  Widow  Mysie,  wert  thou  first  sincere, 
When  tender  accents  trembled  on  mine  ear, 
Like  bees  that  o'er  a  flower  will  float  and 

fleet, 
And  ere  they  light  make  murmurs  soft  and 

sweet? 

Or  was  the  light  that  render'd  me  unwise, 
Guile's — the  sly  Quaker  with  the  downcast 

eyes? 

0  Widow  Mysie,  not  at  once  are  we 
Taught  the  false  scripture  of  Hypocrisy  ! 
Even  pink  Selfishness  has  times,  I  know, 
When  thro'  his  fat  a  patriot's  feelings  glow  ; 
Falsehood  first  learns  her  nature  with  a  sigh, 
And  nurses  bitterly  her  first-born  Lie  ! 

Days  pass'd  ;  and  I  began,  to  my  amaze, 
To  see  a  colder  light  in  Mysie's  gaze  ; 
Once    when,   with    arm   about  her  softly 
wound, 

1  snatch' d  a  kiss,  she  snapt  and  flusht  and 

frown'd  ; 

But  oftener  her  face  a  shadow  wore, 
Such  as  had  never  darken'd  it  before  ; 
I  spoke  of  this,  I  begg'd  her  to  explain, — 
She  tapt  my  cheek,  and  smiled,  and  mused 

again. 

But,  in  the  middle  of  my  love-alarm, 
The  Leech's  watch  went  '  tick '  at  Bungo 

Farm  ; 

My  father  sicken'd,  and  his  features  cold 
Retain'd  the  hue,   without  the   gleam,  of 

gold. 

Then  Mysie  soften' d,  sadden' d,  and  would 

speak 

Of  father's  sickness  with  a  dewy  cheek  ; 
When  to  the  Inn  I  wander' d,  unto  me, 
Lightly,  as  if  she  walk'd  on  wool,  came  she, 
And  '  Is  he  better  ? '  '  Is  he  changed  at  all  ?  ' 
And  '  Heaven  help  him  ! '  tenderly  would 

call. 

1  So  old— so  ill — untended  and  alone  ! 
He  is  your  father,  Tarn, — and  seems  my 

own  ! ' 

And  musing  stood,  one  little  hand  of  snow 
Nestling  and  fluttering  on  my  shoulder — so  ! 
But  father  sicken'd  on,  and  then  one  night, 
When  we  were  sitting  in  the  ingle-light, 
1  O  Tarn,'  she  cried,  '  I  have  it !— I  should 

ne'er 

Forgive  myself  for  staying  idly  here, 
While  he,  your  father,  lack'd  in  his  distress 


The    love,    the  care,   a  daughter's  hands 

possess— 

He  knows  our  troth— he  will  not  say  me  nay; 
But  let  me  nurse  him  as  a  daughter  may, 
And  he  rnay  live,  for  darker  cases  mend, 
To  bless  us  and  to  join  us  in  the  end  ! ' 
'  But,  Mysie '  '  Not  a  word,  the  thing  is 

plann'd,' 
She  said,  and  stopt  my  mouth  with  warm 

white  hand. 

She  went  with  gentle  eyes  that  very  night, 
Stole   to    the  chamber  like  a  moonbeam 

white  ; 
My  father  scowl'd  at  first,  but  soon  was 

won — 
The  keep  was  carried,  and  the  deed  was 

done. 

O  Heaven  !  in  what  strange  Enchanter's  den 
Learnt  she  the  spells  wherewith  she  con- 
quer'd  men  ? 

When  to  that  chamber  she  had  won  her  way, 
The  old  man's  cheek  grew  brighter  every 

day ; 
She  smooth'd  the  pillows  underneath  his 

head, 
She  brought  sweet  music  roundabout  his 

bed, 

She  made  the  very  mustard-blisters  glow 
With  fire  as  soft  as  youthful  lovers  know, 
The  very  physic  bottles  lost  their  gloom 
And  seem'd  like  little  fairies  in  the  room, 
The  very  physic,  charm'd  by  her,  grew  fine, 
Rhubarb  was  nectar,  castor-oil  was  wine. 
Half  darkly,  dimly,  yet  with  secret  flame 
That  titillated  up  and  down  his  frame, 
The  grim  old  man  lay  still,  with  hungry 

eye 

Watching  her  thro'  the  room  on  tiptoe  fly; — 
She  turn'd  her  back — his  cheek  grew  dull 

and  dim  ! 
She  turn'd  her  face — its  sunshine  fell  on 

him  ! 

Better  and  better  every  day  grew  he, 
Colder  and  colder  grew  his  nurse  to  me, 
Till  up  he  leapt,  with  fresher  new  life  astir, 
And  only  sank  again — to  kneel  to  her  ! 

'  Mysie  ! '  I  cried,  with  flushing  face,  too  late 
Stung  by  the  pois'nous  things  whose  names 

1  hate, 

Which  in  so  many  household  fires  flit  free, 
The  salamanders,  Doubt  and  Jealousy, — 


no 


IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS   OF  INVERBURN. 


'  Mysie  ! ' — and  then,  in  accents  fierce  and 

bold, 
Demanded  why  her  looks  had  grown  so 

cold? 

She  trembled,  flush'd,  a  tear  was  in  her  eye, 
She  dropt  her  gaze,  and  heaved  a  balmy 

sigh, 
Then  spoke  with  tender  pauses  low   and 

sad: 

Had  I  a  heart?    She  knew  full  well  I  had. 
Could  I  without  a  conscience-qualm  behold 
My  white-hair' d  father,    weak,  untended, 

old, 

Who  had  so  very  short  a  time  to  live, 
Reft  of  the  peace  a  woman's  hands  can  give  ? 
1  Mysie  ! '  I  shriek'd,  with  heart  that  seem'd 

to  rend, 

With  glaring  eyes,  and  every  hair  on  end. 
Clasping  her  little  hands,   '  O  Tarn,"  she 

cried, 
'Save  for  mylielp  your  father  would  have 

died ; 
Bliss !  to  have  saved  your  filial  heart  that 

sorrow ! 

But  for  my  help,  why,  he  may  die  to-morrow. 
Go,  Tarn  ! — this  weak  warm  heart  I  cannot 

trust 

To  utter  more — be  generous  !  be  just  1 
I  long  have  felt — I  say  it  in  humility — 
A  sort  of — kind  of — incompatibility  ! 
Go,  Tarn  !    Be  happy  !     Bless  you  !    Wed 

another  ! 
And  I  shall  ever  love  you  ! — as  a  mother ! ' 


Sir,  so  it  was.     Stunn'd,  thunder-stricken, 

wild, 

I  raved,  while  father  trembled,  Mysie  smiled; 
O'er  all  the  country-side  the  scandal  rang, 
And  ere  I  knew,  the  bells  began  to  clang  ; — 
And  shutting  eyes  and  stopping  ears,  as 

red 

As  ricks  on  fire,  I  blushing  turn'd  and  fled. 
Twelve  years  have  pass'd  since  I  escaped 

the  net, 

And  father,  tough  as  leather,  lingers  yet, 
A  gray  mare  rules,  the  laugh  has  come  to 

me, 

I  sport,  and  thank  my  stars  that  I  am  free  ! 
If  Mysie  likes  her  bargain  ill  or  well, 
Only  the  Deil,  who  won  it  her,  can  tell ; 
But  she,  who  could  so  well  his  arts  pursue, 
May  learn  a  trick  to  cheat  her  Teacher  too. 


THE  MINISTER  AND 
THE  ELFIN. 


'  O  WHO  among  you  will  win  for  me 
The  soul  of  the  Preacher  of  Woodilee? 
For  he  prays,  he  preaches,  he  labours  sore, 
He  cheats  me  alike  of  rich  and  poor, 
And  his  cheek  is  pale  with  a  thought  divine, 
And  I  would,  I  would  that  he  were  mine  ? ' 
'  O  surely  /  will  win  for  thee 
The  Minister  of  Woodilee  ; 
Round  and  around  the  elfin  tree, 
Where  we  are  fleeting  in  company, 
The  Minister  of  Woodilee, 
Laughing  aloud,  shall  dance  with  me  ! ' 


The  Minister  rode  in  the  white  moonshine, 
His  face  was  pale  with  his  thought  divine, 
And  he  saw  beneath  the  greenwood  tree 
As  sweet  a  maiden  as  well  could  be  : 
My  hair  of  gold  to  my  feet  fell  bright, 
My  eyes  were  blue,  and  my  brow  was  white, 
My  cheeks  were  fresh  as  the  milk  of  kine 
Mingled  with  drops  of  red  red  wine, 
And  they  shone  thro'  my  veil  o'  the  silk 

with  gleam 

Like  a  lover's  face  thro'  a  thm  light  dream  ; 
But  the  sickness  of  death  was  in  mine  ee, 
And  my  face  was  pallid  and  sad  to  see, 
And  I  moaned  aloud  as  the  man  came  near. 
And  I  heard  him  mutter  a  prayer  in  fear  ! 


But  the  Minister,  when  he  look'd  on  me, 
Leapt  down  and  set  my  head  on  his  knee, 
Wet  my  lips  with  the  running  stream, 
And  I  open'd  my  eyes  as  in  a  dream, 
I  open'd  my  eyes  and  look'd  on  him, 
And  his  head  whirl'd  round  and  his  cheek 

grew  dim  ! 

I  kiss'd  him  twice,  I  kiss'd  him  thrice, 
Till  he  kiss'd  again  with  lips  of  ice, 
Till  he  kiss'd  again  with  lips  of  stone, 
And  clasped  me  close  to  his  cold  breast- 
bone; 

And  tho'  his  face  was  weary  and  sad, 
He  laugh'd  aloud  and  seem'd  mad,  so  mad. 
Then  up  to  my  feet  I  leapt  in  glee, 
And  round  and  round  and  around  went  we, 
Under  the  moonlit  greenwood  tree  ! 


THE  MINISTER  AND    THE  ELFIN-VILLAGE    VOICES.       ill 


He  leapt  on  his  steed  and  home  rode  he, 
The  Minister  of  Woodilee  ; 
And  when  at  the  door  of  the  manse  he  rein'd, 
With  blood  his  lips  were  damp'd  and  stain'd, 
And  he  pray'd  a  prayer  for  his  shame  and 

sin, 

And  dropt  a  tear  as  he  enter'd  in, 
But  the  smile  divine  from  his  face  had  fled, 
When  he  laid  him  down  on  his  dying  bed. 


'  O  thanks,  for  thou  hast  won  for  me 

The  Minister  of  Woodilee, 

Who  nevermore,  O  nevermore, 

Shall  preach  and  pray  and  labour  sore, 

And  cheat  me  alike  of  rich  and  poor, 

For  the  smile  divine  no  more  wears  he — 

Hasten  and  bring  his  soul  to  me  ! ' 


Oh,  off  I  ran  his  soul  to  win, 
And  the  gray  gray  manse  I  enter'd  in, 
And  I  saw  him  lying  on  his  bed, 
With  book  and  candle  at  his  head  ; 
But  when  he  turn'd  him,  weary  and  weak, 
A  smile  and  a  tear  were  on  his  cheek, 
And  he  took  my  hand  and  kiss'd  it  thrice, 
Tho'  his  lips  were  clammy  cold  as  ice. 
'  O  wherefore,  wherefore,  dost  thou 
One  who  has  stolen  thy  soul  from  bliss  ? ' 
Then  over  his  face  so  pale  with  pain 
The  thought  divine  came  back  again, 
And  '  I  love  thee  more  for  the  shame,'  he 

said, 

'  I  love  thee  more  on  my  dying  bed, 
And  I  cannot,  cannot  love  thee  less, 
Tho'  my  heart  is  wae  for  its  wickedness  ; 
I  love  thee  better,  I  love  thee  best, 
Sweet  Spirit  that  errest  and  wanderest ; 
Colder  and  colder  my  blood  doth  run, 
I  pray  for  thee,  pray  for  thee,  little  one  ! ' 
Then  I  heard  the  bell  for  the  dying  toll, 
And  I  reach'd  out  hands  to  seize  his  soul, 
But  I  trembled  and  shriek'd  to  see  as  he 

died 

An  angel  in  white  at  his  bedside  ! 
And  I  fled  away  to  the  greenwood  tree, 
Where  the  elves  were  fleeting  in  company, 
And  I  hate  my  immortality, 
And  'twere  better  to  be  a  man  and  dee  ! 


VILLAGE    VOICES. 


JANUARY  WIND, 
i. 

THE  wind,  wife,  the  wind  ;  how  it  blows, 

how  it  blows ; 
It  grips  the  latch,  it  shakes  the  house,  it 

whistles,  it  screams,  it  crows, 
It  dashes  on  the  window-pane,  then  rushes 

off  with  a  cry, 
Ye  scarce  can  hear  your  own  loud  voice,  it 

clatters  so  loud  and  high  ; 
And  far  away  upon  the  sea  it  floats  with 

thunder-call, 
The  wind,  wife,  the  wind,  wife  ;  the  wind 

that  did  it  all ! 


The  wind,  wife,  the  wind  ;  how  it  blew,  how 

it  blew ; 
The  very  night  our  boy  was  born,  it  whistled, 

it  scream'd,  it  crew  ; 
And  while  you  moan'd  upon  your  bed,  and 

your  heart  was  dark  with  fright, 
I  swear  it  mingled  with  the  soul  of  the  boy 

you  bore  that  night  ; 
It  scarcely  seems  a  winter  since,  and  the 

wind  is  with  us  still, — 
The  wind,  wife  ;  the  wind,  wife  ;  the  wind 

that  blew  us  ill ! 


The  wind,  wife,  the  wind  ;  how  it  blows, 

how  it  blows  ! 
It  changes,  shifts,  without  a  cause,  it  ceases, 

it  comes  and  goes  ; 
And  David  ever  was  the  same,  wayward, 

and  wild,  and  bold — 
For  wilful  lad  will  have  his  way,  and  the 

wind  no  hand  can  hold  ; 
But  ah  !  the  wind,  the  changeful  wind,  was 

more  in  the  blame  than  he  ; 
The  wind,  wife  ;  the  wind,  wife,  that  blew 

him  out  to  sea ! 


The  wind,  wife;  the  wind  ;  now  'tis  still,  now 

'tis  still ; 
And  as  we  sit  I  seem  to  feel  the  silence 

shiver  and  thrill, 


112 


IDYLS  AND  LEGENDS  OF  INVERBURN. 


'Twas  thus  the  night  he  went  away,  and  we 

sat  in  silence  here, 
We  listen'd  to  our  beating  hearts,  and  all 

was  weary  and  drear  ; 
We  long'd  to  hear  the  wind  again,  and  to 

hold  our  David's  hand — 
The  wind,  wife  ;  the  wind,  wife,  that  blew 

him  out  from  land  1 

v. 

The  wind,  wife,  the  wind  ;  up  again,  up 

again  ! 
It  blew  our  David  round  the  world,  yet 

shriek'd  at  our  window-pane  ; 
And  ever  since  that  time,  old  wife,  in  rain, 

and  in  sun,  and  in  snow, 
Whether  I  work  or  weary  here,  I  hear  it 

whistle  and  blow, 
It    moans    around,   it    groans  around,   it 

comes  with  scream  and  cry  - 
The  wind,  wife  ;  the  wind,  wife  ;  may  it 

blow  him  home  to  die  ! 


II. 
APRIL  RAIN. 


SHOWERS,  showers,   nought  but  showers, 

and  it  wants  a  week  of  May, 
Flowers,  flowers,  summer  flowers,  are  hid 

in  the  green  and  the  gray  ; 
Green  buds  and  gray   shoots  cover  their 

sparkling  gear, 
They  stir  beneath,  they  long  to  burst,  for 

the  May  is  so  near,  so  near,— 
While  I  spin  and  I  spin,  and  the  fingers  of 

the  Rain 
Fall  patter,  pitter,  patter,  on  the  pane. 


Showers,  showers,  silver  showers,  murmur 

and  softly  sing, 
Flowers,     flowers,     summer    flowers,    are 

swelling  and  hearkening  ; 
It  wants  a  week  of  May,  when  my  love  and 

I  will  be  one, 
The  flowers  will  burst,  the  birds  will  sing, 

as  we  walk  to  church  in  the  sun. 
So  patter  goes  my  heart,    in   a    kind  of 

pleasant  pain, 
To  the  patter,  pitter,  patter  of  the  Rain. 


III. 

SUMMER   MOON. 

i. 

SUMMER  Moon,  O  Summer  Moon,  across 

the  west  you  fly, 
You  gaze  on  half  the  earth  at  once  with 

sweet  and  steadfast  eye  ; 
Summer  Moon,  O  Summer  Moon,  were 

aloft  with  thee, 
I  know  that  I  could  look  upon  my  boy  wl 

sails  at  sea. 

II. 
Summer    Moon,   O    Summer  Moon, 

throw  your  silver  showers 
Upon  a  glassy  sea  that  lies  round  shores 

fruit  and  flowers, 
And    on  the  blue  tide's  silver  edge  drop 

blossoms  in  the  breeze, 
And  the  shadow  of  the  ship  lies  dark  near 

shades  of  orange -trees. 


Summer   Moon,    O   Summer  Moon,   now 

wind  and  storm  have  fled, 
You:  light  creeps  thro"  a  cabin-pane  and 

lights  a  flaxen  head  : 
He  tosses  with  his  lips  apart,  lies  smiling  in 

your  gleam, 
For  underneath  his  folded  lids  you  put  a 

gentle  dream. 


Summer  Moon,  O  Summer  Moon,  his  head 

is  on  his  arm, 
He  stirs  with  balmy  breath  and  sees  the 

moonlight  on  the  Farm, 
He  stirs  and  breathes  his  mother's  name,  he 

smiles  and  sees  once  more 
The   Moon  above,   the    fields  below,    the 

shadow  at  the  door. 


Summer  Moon,  O  Summer  Moon,  across 

the  lift  you  go, 
Far  south  you  gaze  and  see  my  Boy,  where 

groves  of  orange  grow  ! 
Summer  Moon,  O  Summer  Moon,  you  turn 

again  to  me, 
And  seem  to  have  the  smile  of  him  who 

sleeps  upon  the  sea  ! 


VILLAGE    VOICES— I3EXI1ILL,   1866. 


IV. 

DECEMBER   SNOW. 


THE  cold,  cold  snow  !  the  snow  that  lies  so 

white  ! 
The  moon  and  stars  are  hidden,  there  is 

neither  warmth  nor  light — 
I    wonder,    wife — I   wonder,    wife — where 

Jeanie  lies  this  night  ? 

II. 

'Tis  cold,  cold,  cold,  since  Jeanie  went  away, 

The  world  has  changed,  I  sit  and  wait,  and 
listen  night  and  day, 

The  house  is  silent,  silent,  and  my  hair  has 
grown  so  gray — 

'Tis  cold,  cold,  cold,  wife,  since  Jeanie  went 
away. 

in. 

And  tick  !  tick  !  tick  !  the  clock  goes  ever- 
more, 

It  chills  me,   wife — it  seems  to  keep  our 
bairn  beyond  the  door ; 


I  watch  the  firelight  shadows  as  they  float 

upon  the  floor, 
And  tick  !  tick  !  tick  !  wife,  the  clock  goes 

evermore ! 

IV. 

'Tis  cold,  cold,    cold  ! — 'twere  better  she 

were  dead, 
Not  that  I  heed  the  Minister,  and  the  bitter 

things  he  said, — 
But  to  think  my  lassie  cannot  find  a  place 

to  lay  her  head — 
'Tis  cold,  cold,  cold,  wife — better  she  were 

dead! 

v. 

The  cold,  cold  snow  !  the  snow  that  lies  so 

white  ! 
Beneath  the  snow  her  little  one  is  hidden 

out  of  sight, 
But  up  above,  the  wind  blows  keen,  there's 

neither  warmth  nor  light, 
I    wonder,   wife — I  wonder,    wife — where 

Jeanie  lies  this  night ! 


London  Poems. 


(1866-70.) 


Greift  nur  hinein  in's  voile  Menschenleben  ! 
Ein  jeder  lebt's,  nicht  vielen  ist's  bekannt, 
Und  wo  ihr's  packt,  da  ist's  interessant. 

Faust  -  Vorspiel  aufdem  Theater. 


BEX  HILL,   1866. 

Now,  when  the  catkins  of  the  hazel  swing 
Wither'd  above  the  leafy  nook  wherein 
The  chaffinch  breasts  her  five  blue  speckled 

eggs, 
All  round  the  thorn  grows  fragrant,  white 

with  may, 

And  underneath  the  fresh  wild  hyacinth- 
bed 

Shimmers  like  water  in  the  whispering  wind; 
Now,  on  this  sweet  still  gloaming  of  the 

spring, 

Within  my  cottage  by  the  sea,  I  sit, 
Thinking  of  yonder  city  where  I  dwelt, 
Wherein  I  sicken'd,  and  whereof  I  learn' 
So  much  that  dwells  like  music  on  my  brain. 


A  melancholy  happiness  is  mine ! 

My  thoughts,  like  blossoms  of  the   mus- 

chatel, 

Smell  sweetest  in  the  gloaming  ;  and  I  feel 
Visions  and  vanishings  of  other  years, — 
Faint    as    the    scent    of    distant    clover 

meadows — 
Sweet,  sweet,  though  they  awaken  serious 

cares — 
Beautiful,  beautiful,  though  they  make  me 

weep. 

The  good  days  dead,   the  well-beloved 

gone 

Before  me,  lonely  I  abode  amid 
The  buying,  and  the  selling,  and  the  strife 
Of  little  natures  ;  ye  there  si  ill  remain'd 

I 


LONDON  POEMS. 


Something  to  thank  the  Lord  for. — I  could 

live  ! 
On  winter  nights,  when  wind  and  snow  were 

out, 

Afford  a  pleasant  fire  to  keep  me  warm  ; 
And  while  I  sat,   with  homeward-looking 

eyes, 

And  while  I  heard  the  humming  of  the  town, 
I  fancied  'twas  the  sound  I  used  to  hear 
In  Scotland,  when  I  dwelt  beside  the  sea. 
I  knew  not  how  it  was,  or  why  it  was, 
I  only  heard  a  sea-sound,  and  was  sad. 
It  haunted  me  and  pain'd  me,  and  it  made 
That  little  life  of  penmanship  a  dream  ! 
And  yet  it  served  my  soul  for  company, 
When  the  dark  city  gather'd  on  my  brain, 
And  from  the  solitude  came  never  a  voice 
To  bring  the  good  days  back,  and  show  my 

heart 
It  was  not  quite  a  solitary  thing. 

The  purifying  trouble  grew  and  grew, 
Till  silentness  was  more  than  I  could  bear. 
Brought  by  the  ocean  murmur  from  afar, 
Came  silent  phantoms  of  the  misty  hills 
Which  I  had  known  and  loved  in  other  days; 
And,  ah  !  from  time  to  time,  the  hum  of  life 
Around  me,  the  strange  faces  of  the  streets, 
Mingling  with  those  thin  phantoms  of  the 

hills, 

And  with  that  ocean-murmur,  made  a  cloud 
That  changed  around  my  life  with  shades 

and  sounds, 

And,  melting  often  in  the  light  of  day, 
Left  on  my  brow  dews  of  aspiring  dream. 
And  then  I  sang  of  Scottish  dales  and  dells, 
And  human  shapes  that  lived  and  moved 

therein, 

Made  solemn  in  the  shadow  of  the  hills. 
Thereto,  not  seldom,  did  I  seek  to  make 
The  busy  life  of  London  musical, 
And  phrase  in  modern  song  the  troubled 

lives 

Of  dwellers  in  the  sunless  lanes  and  streets. 
Yet  ever  I  was  haunted  from  afar, 
While  singing  ;   and  the  presence  of  the 

mountains 

Was  on  me  ;  and  the  murmur  of  the  sea 
Deepen'd  my  mood;  while  everywhere  I  saw, 
Flowing  beneath  the  blackness  of  the  streets, 
The  current  of  sublimer,  sweeter  life, 
Which  is  the  source  of  human  smiles  and 

tears, 


And,  melodised,  becomes  the  strength  of 
song. 


s 


Darkling,  I  long'd  for  utterance,  whereb; 
Poor  people  might  be  holpen,  gladden' 

cheer'd  ; 
Bright'ning  at  times,    I  sang  for  singing's 

sake. 

The  wild  wind  of  ambition  grew  subdued, 
And  left  the  changeful  current  of  my  soul 
Crystal  and  pure  and  clear,  to  glass  li 

water 

The  sad  and  beautiful  of  human  life 
And,  even  in  the  unsung  city's  streets, 
Seem'd  quiet  wonders  meet  for  serious  song, 
Truth  hard  to  phrase  and  render  musical. 
For  ah !  the  weariness  and  weight  of  tears, 
The  crying  out  to  God,  the  wish  for  slumber, 
They  lay  so  deep,   so  deep  !     God  heard 

them  all ; 

He  set  them  unto  music  of  His  own  ; 
But  easier  far  the  task  to  sing  of  kings, 
Or  weave  weird  ballads  where  the  moon-dew 

glistens, 

Than  body  forth  this  life  in  beauteous  sound. 
The  crowd  had  voices,  but  each  living  man 
Within  the  crowd  seem'd  silence-smit  and 

hard: 

They  only  heard  the  murmur  of  the  town, 
They  only  felt  the  dimness  in  their  eyes, 
And  now  and  then  turn'd  startled,  when  they 

saw 

Some  weary  one  fling  up  his  arms  and  drop, 
Clay-cold,  among  them, — and  they  scarcely 

grieved, 
But  hush'd  their  hearts  a  time,  and  hurried 


'Twas  comfort  deep  as  tears  to  sit  alone, 
Haunted  by  shadows  from  afar  away, 
And  try  to  utter  forth,  in  tuneful  speech, 
What  lay  so  musically  on  my  heart. 
But,  though  it  sweeten'd  life.it  seem'd  in  vain. 
For  while  I  sang,  much  that  was  clear  be- 
fore— 

The  souls  of  men  and  women  in  the  streets, 
The  sounding  sea,  the  presence  of  the  hills, 
And  all  the  weariness,  and  all  the  fret, 
And  all  the  dim,  strange  pain  for  what  had 

fled— 

Turn'd  into  mist,  mingled  before  mine  eyes, 
Roll'd  up  like  wreaths  of  smoke  to  heaven, 
a.pd  died  : 


BEXHILL,  i$66-THE  LITTLE  MILLINER. 


The  pen  dropt  from  my  hand,  mine  eyes 

grew  dim, 

And  the  great  roar  was  in  mine  ears  again, 
And  I  was  all  alone  in  London  streets. 

Hither  to  pastoral  solitude  I  came, 
Happy  to  breathe  again  serener  air 
And  feel  a  purer  sunshine  ;  and  the  woods 
And  meadows  were  to  me  an  ecstasy, 
The  singing  birds  a  glory,  and  the  trees 
A  green  perpetual  feast  to  fill  the  eye 
And  shimmer  in  upon  the  soul  ;  but  chief, 
There  came  the  murmur  of  the   waters, 

sounds 

Of  sunny  tides  that  wash  on  silver  sands. 
Or  cries  of  waves  that  anguish'd  and  went 

white 

Under  the  eyes  of  lightnings.    'Twas  a  bliss 
Beyond  the  bliss  of  dreaming,  yet  in  time 
It  grew  familiar  as  my  mother's  face  ; 
And  when  the  wonder  and  the  ecstasy 
Had  mingled  with  the  beatings  of  my  heart, 
The  terrible  City  loom'd  from  far  away 
Andgather'd  on  me  cloudily,  dropping  dews, 
Even  as  those  phantoms  of  departed  days 
Had   haunted  me  in  London  streets  and 

lanes. 

Wherefore  in  brighter  mood  I  sought  again 
To  make  the  life  of  London  musical, 
And  sought  the  mirror  of  my  soul  for  shapes 
That  linger'd,  faces  bright  or  agonised, 
Yet  ever  taking  something  beautiful 
From  glamour  of  green  branches,  and  of 

clouds 
That  glided  piloted  by  golden  airs. 

And  if  I  list  to  sing  of  sad  things  oft, 
It  is  that  sad  things  in  this  life  of  breath 
Are  truest,  sweetest,  deepest.     Tears  bring 

forth 

The  richness  of  our  natures,  as  the  rain 
Sweetens  the  smelling  brier  ;  and  I,  thank 

God, 

Have  anguish'd  here  in  no  ignoble  tears- 
Tears  for  the  pale  friendwith  the  singing  lips, 
Tears  for  the  father  with  the  gentle  eyes 
(My  dearest  up  in  heaven  next  to  God) 
Who   loved   me   like   a  woman.     I   have 

wrought 

No  garland  of  the  rose  and  passion-flower, 
Grown  in  a  careful  garden  in  the  sun  ; 
But  I  have  gather'd  samphire  dizzily, 
Close  to  the  hollow  roaring  of  a  Sea. 


Far  away  in  the  dark 

Breaketh  that  living  Sea, 
Wave  upon  wave  ;  and  hark  ! 

These  voices  are  blown  to  me  ; 
For  a  great  wind  rises  and  blows, 

Wafting  the  sea-sound  near, 
But  it  fitfully  comes  and  goes, 

And  I  cannot  always  hear  ; 
Green  boughs  are  flashing  around, 

And  the  flowers  at  rny  feet  are  fair, 
And  the  wind  that  bringeth  the  ocean-sound 

Grows  sweet  with  the  country  air. 


THE  LITTLE  MILLINER  ; 

OR,    LOVE   IN   AN   ATTIC. 

With  fairy  foot  and  fearless  gaze 
She  passes  pure  through  evil  ways  ; 
She  wanders  in  the  sinful  town, 

And  loves  to  hear  the  deep  sea-music 
Of  people  passing  up  and  down. 

Fear  nor  shame  nor  sin  hath  she, 
But,  like  a  sea-bird  on  the  Sea, 
Floats  hither,  thither,  day  and  night : 

The  great  black  waters  cannot  harm  her, 
Because  she  is  so  weak  and  light ! 

MY  girl  hath  violet  eyes  and  yellow  hair, 
A  soft  hand,  like  a  lady's,  small  and  fair, 
A  sweet  face  pouting  in  a  white  straw 

bonnet, 

A  tiny  foot,  and  little  boot  upon  it ; 
And  all  her  finery  to  charm  beholders 
Is  the  gray  shawl  drawn  tight  around  her 

shoulders, 
The  plain  stuff-gown  and  collar  white  as 

snow, 

And  sweet  red  petticoat  that  peeps  below. 
But  gladly  in  the  busy  town  goes  she, 
Summer  and  winter,  fearing  nobodie  ; 
She  pats  the  pavement  with  her  fairy  feet, 
With  fearless  eyes  she  charms  the  crowded 

street ; 

And  in  her  pocket  lie,  in  lieu  of  gold, 
A  lucky  sixpence  and  a  thimble  old. 

We  lodged  in  the  same  house  a  year  ago  : 
She  on  the  topmost  floor,  I  just  below, — 
She,  a  poor  milliner,  content  and  wise, 
I,  a  poor  city  clerk,  with  hopes  to  rise  ; 
And,  long  ere  we  were  friends,  I  learnt  to 

love 
The  little  angel  on  the  floor  above. 

12 


n6 


LONDON  POEMS. 


For,  every  morn,  ere  from  my  bed  I  stirr'd, 
Her  chamber  door  would  open,  and  I 

heard, — 

Andlisten'd,  blushing,  to  her  coming  down, 
And  palpitated  with  her  rustling  gown. 
And  tingled  while  her  foot  went  downward 

slow, 
Creak'd   like  a  cricket,  pass'd,    and  died 

below ; 
Then  peeping  from  the  window,  pleased  and 

sly, 

I  saw  the  pretty  shining  face  go  by, 
Healthy    and    rosy,    fresh    from    slumber 

sweet, — 

A  sunbeam  in  the  quiet  morning  street. 
All  winter  long,  witless  who  peep'd  the  while, 
She  sweeten'd  the  chill  mornings  with  her 

smile : 

When  the  soft  snow  was  falling  dimly  white, 
Shining  among  it  with  a  child's  delight, 
Bright  as  a  rose,   though  nipping  winds 

might  blow, 
And  leaving  fairy  footprints  in  the  snow  ! 

And  every  night,  when  in  from  work  she 

tript, 

Red  to  the  ears  I  from  my  chamber  slipt, 
That  I  might  hear  upon  the  narrow  stair 
Her  low  'Good  evening,'  as  she  pass'd  me 

there. 

And  when  her  door  was  closed,  below  sat  I, 
And  hearken'd  stilly  as  she  stirr'd  on  high,  — 
Watch'd  the  red  firelight  shadows  in  the 

room, 

Fashion'd  her  face  before  me  in  the  gloom, 
And  heard  her  close  the  window,  lock  the 

door, 

Moving  about  more  lightly  than  before, 
And  thought,  '  She  is  undressing  now  !'  and 

oh! 

My  cheeks  were  hot,  my  heart  was  in  a  glow! 
And  I  made  pictures  of  her,— standing  bright 
Before  the  looking-glass  in  bed-gown  white, 
Upbinding  in  a  knot  her  yellow  hair, 
Then  kneeling  timidly  to  say  a  prayer  ; 
Till,  last,  the  floor  creak'd  softly  overhead, 
'Neath  bare  feet  tripping  to  the  little  bed, — 
And  all  was  hush'd.     Yet  still  I  hearken'd 

on, 
Till  the  faint  sounds  about  the  streets  were 

gone; 

And  saw  her  slumbering  with  lips  apart, 
One  little  hand  upon  her  little  heart, 


The  other  pillowing  a  face  that  smiled 
In  slumber  like  the  slumber  of  a  child, 
The  bright  hair  shining  round  the  : 

white  ear, 

The  soft  breath  stealing  visible  and  clear, 
And  mixing  with  the  moon's,  whose  frosty 

gleam 
Made  round  her  rest  a  vaporous  light 

dream. 


ty 

• 


How  free  she  wander'd  in  the  wicked  place, 
Protected  only  by  her  gentle  face  ! 
She  saw  bad  things— how  could  she  choose 

but  see? — 

She  heard  of  wantonness  and  misery  ; 
The  city  closed  around  her  night  and  day, 
But  lightly,  happily,  she  went  her  way. 
Nothing  of  evil  that  she  saw  or  heard 
Could  touch  a  heart  so  innocently  stirr'd, — 
By  simple  hopes  that  cheer'd  it  through  the 

storm, 

And  little  flutterings  that  kept  it  warm. 
No  power  had  she  to  reason  out  her  needs, 
To  give  the  whence  and  wherefore  of  her 

deeds ; 

But  she  was  good  and  pure  amid  the  strife, 
By  virtue  of  the  joy  that  was  her  life. 
Here,  where  a  thousand  spirits  daily  fall, 
Where  heart  and  soul  and  senses  turn  to 

gall, 

She  floated,  pure  as  innocent  could  be, 
Like  a  small  sea-bird  on  a  stormy  sea, 
Which  breasts  the  billows,  wafted  to  and 

fro, 
Fearless,  uninjured,  while  the  strong  winds 

blow, 
While  the  clouds  gather,  and  the  waters 

roar, 
And  mighty  ships  are  broken  on  the  shore. 

And  London  streets,  with  all  their  noise 

and  stir, 
Had  many  a  pleasant   sight  to  pleasure 

her. 
There  were  the  shops,  where  wonders  ever 

new, 
As  in  a  garden,  changed  the  whole  year 

through. 
Oft  would  she  stand  and  watch  with  laughter 

sweet 

The  Punch  and  Judy  in  the  quiet  street ; 
Or  look  and  listen  while  soft  minuets 
Play'd  the  street  organ  with  the  marionettes; 


THE  LITTLE  MILLINER. 


117 


Or  joined  the  motley  group  of  merry  folks 
Round  the  street  huckster  with  his  wares 

and  jokes. 
Fearless  and  glad,  she  join'd  the  crowd  that 

flows 

Along  the  streets  at  festivals  and  shows. 
In  summer  time,  she  loved  the  parks  and 

squares, 
Where  fine  folk  drive  their  carriages  and 

pairs  ; 

In  winter  time  her  blood  was  in  a  glow, 
At  the  white  coming  of  the  pleasant  snow  ; 
And  in  the  stormy  nights,  when  dark  rain 

pours, 

She  found  it  pleasant,  too,  to  sit  indoors, 
And  sing  and  sew,  and  listen  to  the  gales, 
Or  read  the  penny  journal  with  the  tales. 

Once  in   the   year,   at   merry  Christmas 

time, 

She  saw  the  glories  of  a  pantomime, 
Feasted  and  wonder'd,  laugh'd  and  clapp'd 

aloud, 

Up  in  the  gallery  among  the  crowd, 
Gathering  dreams  of  fairyland  and  fun 
To  cheer  her  till  another  year  was  done  ; 
More  happy,  and  more  near  to  heaven,  so, 
Than  many  a  lady  in  the  tiers  below. 

And  just  because  her  heart  was  pure  and 

glad, 

She  lack'd  the  pride  that  finer  ladies  had  : 
She  had  no  scorn  for  those  who  lived 

amiss, — 

The  weary  women  with  their  painted  bliss ; 
It  never  struck  her  little  brain,  be  sure, 
She  was  so  very  much  more  fine  and  pure. 
Softly  she  pass'd  them  in  the  public  places, 
Marvelling  at  their  fearful  childish  faces  ; 
She  shelter'd  near  them,  when  a  shower 

would  fall, 

And  felt  a  little  frighten'd,  that  was  all. 
And  watch'd  them,  noting  as  they  stood 

close  by 
Their  dress  and  fine  things  with  a  woman's 

eye, 

And  spake  a  gentle  word  if  spoken  to, — 
And  wonder'd  if  their  mothers  lived  and 

knew? 

Her  look,  her  voice,  her  step,  had  witchery 
And  sweetness  that  were  all  in  all  to  me ! 


We  both  were  friendless,  yet,  in  fear  and 

doubt, 

I  sought  in  vain  for  courage  to  speak  out. 
Wilder  my  heart  could  ne'er  have  throbb'd 

before  her, 
My  thoughts  have  stoop'd  more  humbly  to 

adore  her, 
My  love  more  timid  and  more  still  have 

grown, 

Had  Polly  been  a  queen  upon  a  throne. 
All  I  could  do  was  wish  and  dream  and  sigh, 
Blush  to  the  ears  whene'er  she  pass'd  me  by, 
Still  comforted,  although  she  did  not  love 

me, 
Because — her  little  room  was  just  above  me! 

'Twas  when  the  spring  was  coming,  when 

the  snow 

Had  melted,  and  fresh  winds  began  to  blow, 
And  girls  were  selling  violets  in  the  town, 
That  suddenly  a  fever  struck  me  down. 
The  world  was  changed,  the  sense  of  life 

was  pain'd, 

And  nothing  but  a  shadow-land  remain'd  ; 
Death  came  in  a  dark  mist  and  look'd  at 

me, 

I  felt  his  breathing,  though  I  could  not  see, 
But  heavily  I  lay  and  did  not  stir, 
And  had  strange  images  and  dreams  of  her, 
Then  ca>nie  a  vacancy  :  with  feeble  breath, 
I  shiver'd  under  the  cold  touch  of  Death, 
And  swoon'd  among  strange  visions  of  the 

dead, 
When  a  voice  call'd  from  Heaven,  and  he 

fled; 

And  suddenly  I  waken'd,  as  it  seem'd, 
From  a  deep    sleep    wherein   I  had   not 

dream' d. 

And  it  was  night,  and  I  could  see  and  hear, 
And  I  was  in  the  room  I  held  so  dear, 
And  unaware,  stretch'd  out  upon  my  bed, 
I  hearken'd  for  a  footstep  overhead. 

But  all  was  hush'd.     I  look'd  around  the 

room, 
And  slowly  made  out    shapes  amid    the 

gloom. 

The  wall  was  redden'd  by  a  rosy  light, 
A  faint  fire  flicker'd,  and  I  knew  'twas  night, 
Because  below  there  was  a  sound  of  feet 
Dying  away  along  the  quiet  street, — 


LONDON  POEMS. 


When,  turning  my  pale  face  and  sighing 

low, 

I  saw  a  vision  in  the  quiet  glow  : 
A  little  figure,  in  a  cotton  gown, 
Looking  upon  the  fire  and  stooping  down, 
Her  side  to  me,  her  face  illumed,  she  eyed 
Two    chestnuts    burning    slowly,    side  by 

side, — 

Her  lips  apart,  her  clear  eyes  strain'd  to  see, 
Her  little  hands  clasp' d  tight  around  her 

knee, 

The  firelight  gleaming  on  her  golden  head, 
And  tinting  her  white  neck  to  rosy  red, 
Her  features  bright,  and  beautiful,  and  pure, 
With  childish  fear  and  yearning  half  demure. 

Oh,  sweet,  sweet  dream  !  I  thought,  and 

strain'd  mine  eyes, 

Fearing  to  break  the  spell  with  words  and 
sighs. 

Softly  she  stoop'd,  her  dear  face  sweetly 

fair, 

And  sweeter  since  a  light  like  love  was  there, 
Brightening,  watching,  more  and  more  elate, 
As  the  nuts  glow'd  together  in  the  grate, 
Crackling  with  little  jets  of  fiery  light, 
Till  side  by  side  they  turn'd  to  ashes  white, — 
Then  up  she  leapt,  her  face  cast  off  its  fear 
For  rapture  that  itself  was  radiance  clear, 
And  would  have  clapp'd  her  little  hands  in 

glee, 

But,  pausing,  bit  her  lips  and  peep'd  at  me, 
And  met  the  face  that  yearn'd  on  her  so 

whitely, 
And  gave  a  cry  and  trembled,  blushing 

brightly, 

While,  raised  on  elbow,  as  she  turn'd  to  flee, 
'  Polly  I'  I  cried, — and  grew  as  red  as  she  ! 

It  was  no  dream  !— for  soon  my  thoughts 

were  clear, 

And  she  could  tell  me  all,  and  I  could  hear  : 
How  in  my  sickness  friendless  1  had  lain, 
How  the  hard  people  pitied  not  my  pain  ; 
How,  in  despite  of  what  bad  people  said, 
She  left  her  labours,  stopp'd  beside  my  bed, 
And  nursed  me,  thinking  sadly  I  would  die  ; 
How,  in  the  end,  the  danger  pass'd  me  by  ; 
How  she  had  sought  to  steal  away  before 
The  sickness  pass'd,  and  I  was  strong  once 

more, 


By  fits  she  told  the  story  in  mine  ear, 
And  troubled  all  the  telling  with  a  fear 
Lest  by  my  cold  man's  heart  she  should  be 

chid, 

Lest  I  should  think  her  bold  in  what  she  did 
But,  lying  on  my  bed,  I  dared  to  say, 
How  I  had  watch'd  and  loved  her  many 

day, 

How  dear  she  was  to  me,  and  dearer  still 
For  that  strange  kindness  done  while  I  was 

ill, 
And  how  I  could  but  think  that  Heave 

above 

Had  done  it  all  to  bind  our  lives  in  love. 
And  Polly  cried,  turning  her  face  away, 
And  seem'd  afraid,  and  answer'd  '  yea  '  nor 

•nay;' 
Then  stealing  close,  with  little  pants  and 

sighs, 
Look'd  on  my  pale  thin  face  and  earnest 

eyes, 

And  seem'd  in  act  to  fling  her  arms  about 
My  neck,  then,  blushing,  paused,  in  flutter- 
ing doubt, 
Last,  sprang  upon  my  heart,  sighing  and 

sobbing, — 
That  I  might  feel  how  gladly  hers   was 

throbbing  ! 

Ah  !  ne'er  shall  I  forget  until  I  die 
How  happily  the  dreamy  days  went  by, 
While  I  grew  well,  and  lay  with  soft  heart- 
beats, 
Heark'ning  the  pleasant  murmur  from  the 

streets, 

And  Polly  by  me  like  a  sunny  beam, 
And  life  all  changed,  and  love  a  drowsy 

dream  ! 

'Twas  happiness  enough  to  lie  and  see 
The  little  golden  head  bent  droopingly 
Over  its  sewing,  while  the  still  time  flew, 
And  my  fond  eyes  were  dim  with  happy 

dew  ! 
And  then,  when   I  was  nearly  well  and 

strong, 

And  she  went  back  to  labour  all  day  long, 
How  sweet  to  lie  alone  with  half- shut  eyes, 
And  hear  the  distant  murmurs  and  the  cries, 
And  think  how  pure  she  was  from  pain  and 

sin, — 

And  how  the  summer  days  were  coming  in  ! 
Then,  as  the  sunset  faded  from  the  room, 
To  listen  for  her  footstep  in  the  ^loom, 


;c 

: 

LS 

• 


THE  LITTLE  MILLINER-LIZ. 


119 


To  pant  as  it  came  stealing  up  the  stair, 
To  feel  my  whole  life  brighten  unaware 
When  the  soft  tap  came  to  the  door,  and 

when 

The  door  was  open'd  for  her  smile  again  ! 
Best,  the  long  evenings  !  -  when,  till  late  at 

night, 

She  sat  beside  me  in  the  quiet  light, 
And  happy  things  were  said  and  kisses  won, 
And  serious  gladness  found  its  vent  in  fun. 
Sometimes  I  would  draw  close  her  shining 

head, 

And  pour  her  bright  hair  out  upon  the  bed, 
And  she  would  laugh,  and  blush,  and  try  to 

scold, 
While  '  Here,'  I  cried,  '  I  count  my  wealth 

in  gold  ! ' 
Sometimes  we  play'd  at  cards,  and  thrill'd 

with  bliss, 

On  trumping  one  another  with  a  kiss. 
And  oft  our  thoughts  grew  sober  and  found 

themes 
Of  wondrous  depth  in  marriage  plans  and 

schemes  ; 

And  she  with  pretty  calculating  lips 
Sat  by  me,  cautious  to  the  finger-tips, 
Till,  all  our  calculations  grown  a  bore, 
We  summ'd  them  up  in  kisses  as  before  ! 

Once,  like  a  little  sinner  for  transgression, 
She  blush'd  upon  my  breast,  and  made  con- 
fession : 
How,  when  that  night  I  woke  and  look'd 

around, 

I  found  her  busy  with  a  charm  profound, — 
One  chestnut  was  herself,  my  girl  confess'd, 
The  other  was  the  person  she  loved  best, 
And  if  they  burn'd  together  side  by  side, 
He  loved  her,  and  she  would  become  his 

bride  ; 

And  burn  indeed  they  did,  to  her  delight, — 
And  had  the  pretty  charm  not  proven  right  ? 
Thus  much,  and  more,  with  timorous  joy, 

she  said, 

While  her  confessor,  too,  grew  rosy  red, — 
And  close  together  press'd  two  blissful  faces, 
As  I  absolved  the  sinner,  with  embraces. 

And  here  is  winter  come  again,    winds 

blow, 

The  houses  and  the  streets  are  white  with 
snow  ; 


And  in  the  long  and  pleasant  eventide, 
Why,  what  is  Polly  making  at  my  side  ? 
What  but  a  silk-gown,  beautiful  and  grand, 
We  bought  together  lately  in  the  Strand  ! 
What  but  a  dress  to  go  to  church  in  soon, 
And  wear  right  queenly  'neath  a  honey- 
moon ! 
And  who  shall  match  her  with   her  new 

straw  bonnet, 

Her  tiny  foot  and  little  boot  upon  it, 
Embroider'd  petticoat  and  silk-gown  new, 
And  shawl  she  wears  as  few  fine  ladies  do  ? 
And  she  will  keep,  to  charm  away  all  ill, 
The  lucky  sixpence  in  her  pocket  still  ! 
And  we  will  turn,    come  fair  or  cloudy 

weather, 
To  ashes,  like  the  chestnuts,  close  together  ! 


LIZ. 

The  crimson  light  of  sunset  falls 

Through  the  gray  glamour  of  the  murmuring 

rain, 
And  creeping  o'er  the  housetops  crawls 

Through  the  black  smoke  upon  the  broken  pane, 
Steals  to  the  straw  on  which  she  lies, 

And  tints  her  thin  black  hair  and  hollow  cheeks, 
Her  sun-tann'd  neck,  her  glistening  eyes, — 

While  faintly,  sadly,  fitfully  she  speaks. 
But  when  it  is  no  longer  light, 

The  pale  girl  smiles,  with  only  One  to  mark, 
And  dies  upon  the  breast  of  Night, 

Like  trodden  snowdrift  melting  in  the  dark. 


AH,  rain,  rain,  rain  ! 

It  patters  down  the  glass,  and  on  the  sill, 

And  splashes  in  the  pools  along  the  lane — 

Then  gives  a  kind  of  shiver,  and  is  still : 

One  likes  to  hear  it,  though,  when  one  is 

ill. 
Rain,  rain,  rain,  rain  ! 

Ah,  how  it  pours  and  pours  ! 
Rain,  rain,  rain,  rain  ! 

A  dismal  day  for  poor  girls  out-o'-doors  ! 


Ah,  don't  !  That  sort  of  comfort  makes  me 
cry. 

And,  Parson,  since  I'm  bad,  I  want  to  die. 
The  roaring  of  the  street 
The  tramp  of  feet, 
The  sobbing  of  the  rain, 
Bring  nought  but  pain  ; 


LONDON  POEMS. 


The/re  gone  into  the  aching  of  my  brain  ; 
And  whether  it  be  light, 
Or  dark  dead  night, 

Wherever  I  may  be,  I  hear  them  plain  ! 
I'm  lost  and  weak,  and  can  no  longer  bear 
To  wander,  like  a  shadow,  here  and  there — 
As  useless  as   a  stone— tired  out— and 

sick! 
So  that  they  put  me  down  to  slumber 

quick, 

It  does  not  matter  where. 
No  one  will  miss;  me  ;  all  will  hurry  by, 
And  never  cast  a  thought  on  one  so  low  ; 
Fine  gentlemen  miss  ladies  when  they  go, 
But  folk  care  nought  for  such  a  thing  as  I. 


'Tis  bad,  I  know,  to  talk  like  that— too  bad! 
Joe,  though  he's  often  hard,  is  strong  and 

true — 

[And  there's  the  baby,  too  ! — 
But  I'm  so  tired  and  sad. 
I'm  glad  it  was  a  boy,  sir,  very  glad. 
A  man  can  fight  along,  can  say  his  say, 
Is  not  look'd  down  upon,  holds  up  his 

head, 

And,  at  a  push,  can  always  earn  his  bread: 
Men  have  the  best  of  it,  in  many  a  way. 
But  ah  !  'tis  hard  indeed  for  girls  to  keep 
Decent   and    honest,    tramping    in    the 

town, — 
Their    best    but  bad — made  light  of — 

beaten  down — 

Wearying  ever,  wearying  for  sleep. 
If  they  grow  hard,  go  wrong,  from  bad  to 

badder, 
Why,  Parson  dear,  they're  happier  being 

blind : 
They  get  no  thanks  for  being  good  and 

kind— 
The  better  that  they  are,  they  feel  the  sadder! 

IV. 

Nineteen  !  nineteen  ! 

Only  nineteen,  and  yet  so  old,  so  old  ; — 
I  feel  like  fifty,  Parson— I  have  been 

.  So  wicked,  I  suppose,  and  life's  so  cold  ! 

Ah,  cruel  are  the  wind,  and  rain,  and  snow, 

And  I've  been  out  for  years  among  them 

all: 

I  scarce  remember  being  weak  and  small 
Like  baby  there — it  was  so  long  ago. 


It  does  not  seem  that  I  was  born.     I  woke, 

One  day,  long,  long  ago,  in  a  dark  room, 

And  saw  the  housetops  round  me  in  the 

smoke, 
And,  leaning  out,  look'd  down  into  the 

gloom, 
Saw  deep  black  pits,  blank  walls,  and  broken 

panes, 
And  eyes,  behind  the  panes,  that  flash'd 

at  me, 
And  heard  an  awful  roaring,  from  the  lanes, 

Of  folk  I  could  not  see  ; 
Then,  while  I  look'd  and  listen'd  in  a  dream, 
I  turn'd  my  eyes  upon  the  housetops  gray, 
And  saw,  between  the  smoky  roofs,  a  gleam 

Of  silver  water,  winding  far  away.  . 
That  was  the  River.    Cool  and  smooth  and 

deep, 

It  glided  to  the  sound  o'  folk  below, 
Dazzling  my  eyes,  till  they  began  to  grow 
Dusty  and  dim  with  sleep. 
Oh,    sleepily    I    stood,    and    gazed,    and 

hearken'd ! 
And  saw  a  strange,    bright  light,  that 

slowly  fled, 
Shine  through  the  smoky  mist,  and  stain 

it  red, 
And    suddenly    the    water    flash'd, — then 

darken'd  ; 

And  for  a  little  time,  though  I  gazed  on, 
The  river  and  the  sleepy  light  were  gone  ; 
But  suddenly,  over  the  roofs  there  lightcn'd 
A  pale,  strangfj  brightness  out  of  heaven 

shed, 
And,  with  a  sweep  that  made  me  sick  and 

frighten'd, 
The  yellow  Moon  roll'd  up  above  my 

head  ;- 
And  down  bolow  me  roar'd  the  noise  o' 

trade, 

And  ah  !  I  felt  «Iive,  and  was  afraid, 
And  cold,   and  hungry,  crying  out  for 
bread. 

v. 

All  that  is  like  a  dream.    It  don't  seem  true  ! 
Father  was  gone,  and  mother  left,  you 

see, 

To  work  for  little  brother  Ned  and  me  ; 
And  up  among  the  gloomy  roofs  we  grew, — 
Lock'd  in  full  oft,  lest  we  should  wander 

out, 
With  nothing  but  a  crust  o'  bread  to  eat, 


LIZ. 


121 


While  mother  char'd  for  poor  folk  round 

about, 
Or  sold  cheap  odds  and  ends  from  street 

to  street. 
Yet,  Parson,  there  were  pleasures  fresh  and 

fair, 

To  make  the  time  pass  happily  up  there  : 
A  steamboat  going  past  upon  the  tide, 
A  pigeon  lighting  on  the  roof  close  by, 
The  sparrows  teaching  little  ones  to  fly, 
The  small  white  moving  clouds,  that  we 

espied, 
And  thought  were  living,  in  the  bit  of 

sky — 
With  sights  like  these  right  glad  were 

Ned  and  I  ; 
And  then,  we  loved  to  hear  the  soft  rain 

calling, 

Pattering,  pattering,  upon  the  tiles, 
And  it  was  fine  to  see  the  still  snow  falling, 
Making  the  housetops  white  for  miles  on 

miles, 

And  catch  it  in  our  little  hands  in  play, 
And  laugh  to  feel  it  melt  and  slip  away  ! 
But  I  was  six,  and  Ned  was  only  three, 
And  thinner,  weaker,  wearier  than  me  ; 
And  one  cold  day,  in  winter  time,  when 

mother 

Had  gone  away  into  the  snow,  and  we 
Sat  close  for  warmth  and  cuddled  one 

another, 

He  put  his  little  head  upon  my  knee, 
And  went  to  sleep,  and  would  not  stir  a  limb, 

But  look'd  quite  strange  and  old  ; 
And  when  I  shook  him,  kiss'd  him,  spoke 

to  him, 

He  smiled,  and  grew  so  cold. 
Then  I  was  frighten'd,  and  cried  out,  and 

none 
Could  hear  me  ;  while  I  sat  and  nursed 

his  head. 
Watching  the  whiten'd  window,  while  the 

Sun 

Peep'd  in  upon  his  face,  and  made  it  red. 
And  I  began  to  sob  ;— till  mother  came, 
Knelt  down,  and  scream'd,  and  named  the 

good  God's  name, 
And  told  me  he  was  dead. 
And  when  she  put  his  night-gown  on,  and, 

weeping, 

Placed  him  among  the  rags  upon  his  bed, 
I  thought  that  brother  Ned  was  only  sleep- 
ing, 


And  took  his  'tittle  hand,  and  felt  no  fear. 
But  when  the  place  grew  gray  and  cold 

and  drear, 
And  the  round  Moon  over  the  roofs  came 

creeping, 

And  put  a  silver  shade 
All  round  the  chilly  bed  where  he  was  laid, 
I  cried,  and  was  afraid. 


Ah,  yes,  it's  like  a  dream  ;  for  time  pass'd 

by, 

And  I  went  out  into  the  smoky  air, 
Fruit-selling,    Parson  —  trudging,    wet    or 

dry — 
Winter  and  summer — weary,  cold,  and 

bare. 

And  when  old  mother  laid  her  down  to  die, 
And  parish  buried  her,  I  did  not  cry, 

And  hardly  seem'd  to  care  ; 
I  was  too  hungry,  and  too  dull ;  beside, 
The  roar  o'  streets  had  made  me  dry  as 

dust- 
It  took  me  all  my  time,  howe'er  I  tried, 

To  keep  my  limbs  alive  and  earn  a  crust ; 
I  had  no  time  for  weeping. 
And  when  I  was  not  out  amid  the  roar, 
Or  standing  frozen  at  the  playhouse  door, 
Why,   I  was  coil'd  upon  my  straw,   and 

sleeping. 

Ah,  pence  were  hard  to  gain  ! 
Some  girls  were  pretty,  too,  but  I  was  plain  : 
Fine  ladies  never  stopp'd  and  look'd  and 

smiled, 

And  gave  me  money  for  my  face's  sake. 

That  made  me  hard  and  angry  when  a  child; 

But  now  it  thrills  my  heart,  and  makes 

it  ache  ! 
The  pretty  ones,  poor  things,  what  could 

they  do, 

Fighting  and  starving  in  the  wicked  town, 
But  go  from  bad  to  badder — down,  down, 

down — 

Being  so  poor,  and  yet  so  pretty,  too  ? 
Never  could  bear  the  like  of  that— ah,  no  ! 
Better  have  starved  outright  than  gone  90 
low  ! 

VII. 

But  I've  no  call  to  boast.     I  might  have 

been 

As  wicked,  Parson  dear,  in  my  distress, 
But  for  your  friend  -  you  know  the  one  I 

mean  ? — 


122 


LONDON  POEMS. 


/e  for. 


The  tall,  pale  lady,  in  the  mourning  dress. 
Though  we  were  cold  at  first,  that  wore 
away — 

She  was  so  mild  and  young, 

And  had  so  soft  a  tongue, 

And  eyes  to  sweeten  what  she  loved  to  say. 

She  never  seem'd  to  scorn  me — no,  not  she  ; 

And  (what  was  best)  she  seem'd  as  sad  as 

me  ! 

Not  one  of  them  that  make  a  girl  feel  base, 
And  call  her  names,  and  talk  of  her  disgrace, 
And  frighten  one  with  thoughts  of  flaming 

hell, 
And  fierce   Lord  God  with  black  and 

angry  brow ; 
But  soft  and  mild,  and  sensible  as  well ; 

And  oh,  I  loved  her,  and  I  love  her  now. 
She  did  me  good  for  many  and  many  a 

day- 
More  good  than  pence  could  ever  do,  I 

swear, 
For  she  was  poor,  with  little  pence  to 

spare — 
Learn'd  me  to  read,  and  quit  low  words, 

and  pray. 

And,  Parson,  though  I  never  understood 
How  such  a  life  as  mine  was  meant  for  good, 
And  could  not  guess  what  one  so  poor  and 

low 
Would  do  in  that  sweet  place  of  which 

she  spoke, 
And  could  not  feel  that  God  would  let  me 

go 

Into  so  bright  a  land  with  gentlefolk, 
I  liked  to  hear  her  talk  of  such  a  place, 
And  thought  of  all  the  angels  she  was 

best, 
Because  her  soft  voice  soothed  me,  and  her 

face 

Made  my  words  gentle,  put  my  heart  at 
rest. 

VIII. 

Ah,  sir  !  'twas  very  lonesome.     Night  and 

day, 
Save  when  the  sweet  miss  came,  I  v\as 

alone, — 
Moved  on  and  hunted  through  the  streets 

of  stone, 

And  even  in  dreams  afraid  to  rest  or  stay. 
Then,  other  girls  had  lads  to  work  and  strive 

for; 

I  envied  them,  and  did  not  know  'twas 
wrong, 


And  often,  very  often,  used  to  long 
For  some  one  I  could  like  and  keep  alive  for. 
Marry  ?     Not  they  ! 

They  can't  afford  to  be  so  good,  you  know; 
But  many  of  them,  though  they  step  astray, 

Indeed  don't  mean  to  sin  so  much,  or  go 
Against  what 's  decent.  Only — 'tis  their  way. 
And  many  might  do  worse  than  that,  may  be, 

If  they  had  ne'er  a  one  to  fill  a  thought — 
It  sounds  half  wicked,  but  poor  girls  like  me 

Must  sin  a  little,  to  be  good  in  aught. 


So  I  was  glad  when  I  began  to  see 
Joe  Purvis  fancied  me  ; 
And  when,  one  night,  he  took  me  to  the  play, 
Over  on  Surrey  side,  and  offer'd  fair 
That  we  should  take  a  little  room  and 

share 
Our  earnings,    why,    I   could  not  answer 

1  Nay  ! ' 
And  that's  a  year  ago  ;  and  though  I'm 

bad, 

I've  been  as  true  to  Joe  as  girl  could  be. 
I  don't  complain  a  bit  of  Joe,  dear  lad, 

Joe  never,  never  meant  but  well  to  me  ; 
And  we  have  had  as  fair  a  time,  I  think, 
As  one  could  hope,  since  we  are  both  so 

low. 

Joe  likes  me— never  gave  me  push  or  blow, 

When  sober :  only,  he  was  wild  in  drink. 

But  then  we  don't  mind  beating  when  a  man 

Is  angry,  if  he  likes  us  and  keeps  straight, 

Works  for  his  bread,  and  docs  the  best  he 

can  ; — 
'Tis  being  left  and  slighted  that  we  hate. 

x. 

And  so  the  baby 's  come,  and  I  shall  die  ! 
And  though  'tis  hard  to  leave  poor  baby 

here, 
Where  folk  will  think  him  bad,  and  all's 

so  drear, 
The  great  LORD  GOD  knows  better   far 

than  I. 

Ah,  don't ! — 'tis  kindly,  but  it  pains  me  so  ! 
You  say  I'm  wicked,  and  I  want  to  go  ! 
'  GOD'S  kingdom,'  Parson  dear?    Ah  nay, 

ah  nay ! 
That  must  be  like  the  country — which  I 

fear  : 

I  saw  the  country  once,  one  summer  day, 
And  I  would  rather  die  in  London  here 


LIZ. 


123 


For  I  was  sick  of  hunger,  cold,  and  strife, 

And  took  a  sudden  fancy  in  my  head 

To  try  the  country,  and  to  earn  my  bread 
Out  among  fields,  where  I  had  heard  one's 

life 

Was  easier  and  brighter.     So,  that  day, 
I  took  my  basket  up  and  stole  away, 
Just  after  sunrise.     As  I  went  along, 

Trembling  and  loath  to  leave  the  busy 

place, 
I  felt  that  I  was  doing  something  wrong, 

And  fear'd  to  look  policemen  in  the  face. 
And  all  was  dim  :  the  streets  were  gray  and 
wet 

After  a  rainy  night :  and  all  was  still ; 

I  held  my  shawl  around  me  with  a  chill, 
And  dropt    my  eyes    from   every  face   I 

met ; 
Until  the  streets  began  to  fade,  the  road 

Grew  fresh  and  clean  and  wide, 
Fine  houses  where  the  gentlefolk  abode, 

And  gardens  full  of  flowers,  on  every  iide. 
That  made  me  walk  the  quicker— on,  on, 
on — 

As  if  I  were  asleep  with  half-shut  eyes, 

And  all  at  once  I  saw,  to  my  surprise, 
The  houses  of  the  gentlefolk  were  gone, 
And  I  was  standing  still, 
Shading  my  face,  upon  a  high  green  hill, 

And  the  bright  sun  was  blazing, 
And  all  the  blue  above  me  seem'd  to  melt 

To  burning,  flashing  gold,  while  I  was 

gazing 
On  the  great  smoky  cloud  where  I  had  dwelt. 


I'll  ne'er  forget  that  day.   All  was  so  bright 
And  strange.    Upon  the  grass  around  my 

feet 

The  rain  had  hung  a  million  drops  of  light; 
The  air,  too,  was  so  clear  and  warm  and 

sweet, 

It  seem'd  a  sin  to  breathe  it.     All  around 
Were  hills  and  fields  and  trees  that  trem- 
bled through 

A  burning,  blazing  fire  of  gold  and  blue  ; 
And  there  was  not  a  sound, 

Save  a  bird  singing,  singing,  in  the  skies, 
And   the    soft   wind,    that  ran   along  the 

ground, 
And  blew  so  sweetly  on  my  lips  and  eyes. 


Then,  with  my  heavy  hand  upon  my  chest, 
Because  the  bright  air  pain'd  me,  trem- 
bling, sighing, 

I  stole  into  a  dewy  field  to  rest, 
And  oh,  the  green,  green  grass  where  I 

was  lying 
Was  fresh  and  living— and  the  bird  sang 

loud, 
Out  of  a  golden  cloud — 

And  I  was  looking  up  at  him  and  crying  ! 


How  swift  the  hours  slipt  on!— and  by  and  by 
The  sun  grew  red,  big  shadows  fill'd  the  sky, 

The  air  grew  damp  with  dew, 

And  the  dark  night  was  coming  down,  I 

knew. 
Well,  I  was  more  afraid  than  ever,  then, 

And    felt    that  I  should   die  in  such  a 
place, — 

So  back  to  London  town  I  turn'd  my  face, 
And  crept  into  the  great  black  streets  again  ; 
And  when  I  breathed  the  smoke  and  heard 
the  roar, 

Why,  I  was  better,  for  in  London  here 

My  heart  was  busy,  and  I  felt  no  fear. 
I  never  saw  the  country  any  more. 
And  I  have  stay'd  in  London,  well  or  ill— 

I  would  not  stay  out  yonder  if  I  could. 

For  one  feels  dead,  and  all  looks  pure  and 

good— 

I  could  not  bear  a  life  so  bright  and  still. 
All  that  I  want  is  sleep, 
Under  the  flags  and  stones,  so  deep,  so  deep! 
God  won't  be  hard  on  one  so  mean,  but  He, 

Perhaps,  will  let  a  tired  girl  slumber  sound 

There  in  the  deep  cold  darkness  under 

ground  ; 

And  I  shall  waken  up  in  time,  may  be, 
Better  and  stronger,  not  afraid  to  see 

Thegreat,  still  Light  that  folds  Him  round 
and  round ! 

XIV. 

See  !  there's  the  sunset  creeping  through  the 

pane— 

How  cool  and  moist  it  looks  amid  the  rain! 
I  like  to  hear  the  splashing  of  the  drops 
On  the  house-tops, 

And  the  loud  humming  of  the  folk  that  go 
Along  the  streets  below  ! 
I  like  the  smoke  and  noise— I  am  so  bad — 
They  make  a  low  one  hard,  and  still  her 

cares.  .  .  . 


124 


LONDON  POEMS. 


There's  Joe  !     I  hear  his  foot  upon  the 

stairs  ! — 

He  must  be  wet,  poor  lad  ! 
He  will  be  angry,  like  enough,  to  find 
Another  little  life 'to  clothe  and  keep. 
But  show  him   baby,    Parson — speak  him 

kind— 
And  tell  him  Doctor  thinks  I'm  going  to 

sleep. 

A  hard,  hard  life  is  his  !     He  need  be  strong 
And  rough,  to  earn  his  bread  and  get  along. 
I  think  he  will  be  sorry  when  I  go, 
And  leave  the  little  one  and  him  behind. 
I  hope  he'il  see  another  to  his  mind, 
To  keep  him  straight  and  tidy.     Poor  old 
Joe! 


THE  STARLING. 


The  little  lame  tailor 

Sat  stitching  and  snarling — 
Who  in  the  world 

Was  the  tailor's  darling  ? 
To  none  of  his  kind 
Was  he  well-inclined, 

But  he  doted  on  Jack  the  starling. 

II. 

For  the  bird  had  a  tongue, 

And  of  words  good  store, 
And  his  cage  was  hung 

Just  over  the  door. 
And  he  saw  the  people, 

And  heard  the  roar, — 
Folk  coming  and  going 

Evermore, — 
And  he  look'd  at  the  tailor, — 

And  swore. 

in. 
From  a  country  lad 

The  tailor  bought  him, — 
His  training  was  bad. 

For  tramps  had  taught  him  ; 
On  alehouse  benches 

His  cage  had  been, 
While  louts  and  wenches 

Made  jests  obscene, — 
But  he  learn' d,  no  doubt, 

His  oaths  from  lellows 
Who  travel  about 


With  kettle  and  bellows, 
And  three  or  four, 

The  roundest  by  far 
That  ever  he  swore, 

Were  taught  by  a  tar. 
And  the  tailor  heard — 

'  We'll  be  friends  ! '  said  he, 
'  You're  a  clever  bird, 

And  our  tastes  ag  ee  - 
We  both  are  old, 

And  esteem  life  base, 
The  whole  world  cold, 

Things  out  of  place, 
And  we're  lonely  too, 

And  full  of  care — 
So  what  can  we  do 

But  swear  ? 


'  The  devil  take  you, 

How  you  mutter  ! — 
Yet  there's  much  to  make  you 

Swear  and  flutter. 
You  want  the  fresh  air 

And  the  sunlight,  lad, 
And  your  prison  there 

Feels  dreary  and  sad, 
And  here  I  frown 

In  a  prison  as  dreary, 
Hating  the  town, 

And  feeling  weary : 
We're  too  confined,  Jack, 

And  we  want  to  fly, 
And  you  blame  mankind,  Jack, 

And  so  do  I ! 
And  then,  again, 

By  chance  as  it  were, 
We  learn' d  from  men 

How  to  grumble  and  swear 
You  let  your  throat 

By  the  scamps  be  guided, 
And  swore  by  rote — 

All  just  as  I  did  ! 
And  without  beseeching, 

Relief  is  brought  us — 
For  we  turn  the  teaching 

On  those  who  taught  us  ! ' 

v. 

A  haggard  and  ruffled 
Old  fellow  was  Jack, 

With  a  grim  face  muffled 
In  ragged  black, 


THE  STARLING— JANE  LEWSON. 


125 


And  his  coat  was  rusty 

And  never  neat, 
And  his  wings  were  dusty 

With  grime  of  the  street, 
And  he  sidelong  peer'd, 

With  eyes  of  soot, 
And  scowl'd  and  sneer'd, — 

And  was  lame  of  a  foot ! 
And  he  long'd  to  go 

From  whence  he  came  ; — 
And  the  tailor,  you  know, 

Was  just  the  same. 

VI. 

All  kinds  of  weather 

They  felt  confined, 
And  swore  together 

At  all  mankind  ; 
For  their  mirth  was  done, 

And  they  felt  like  brothers, 
And  the  swearing  of  one 

Meant  no  more  than  the  other's 
'Twas  just  a  way 

They  had  learn'd,  you  see, — 
Each  wanted  to  say 

Only  this — '  Woe  "s  me  ! 
I'm  a  poor  old  fellow, 

And  I'm  prison'd  so, 
While  the  sun  shines  mellow, 
And  the  corn  waves  yellow 

And  the  fresh  winds  blow,  — 
And  the  folk  don't  care 

If  I  live  or  die, 
But  I  long  for  air, 

And  I  wish  to  fly  ! ' 
Yet  unable  to  utter  it, 

And  too  wild  to  bear, 
They  could  only  mutter  it, 

And  swear. 

VII. 

Many  a  year 

They  dwelt  in  the  city, 
In  their  prisons  drear, 

And  none  felt  pity, 
And  few  were  sparing 

Of  censure  and  coldness, 
To  hear  them  swearing 

With  such  plain  boldness  ; 
But  at  last,  by  the  Lord, 

Their  noise  was  stopt, — 
Far  down  on  his  board 

The  tailor  dropt, 


And  they  found  him  dead, 

And  done  with  snarling, 
And  over  his  head 

Still  grumbled  the  Starling  ; 
But  when  an  old  Jew 

Claim'd  the  goods  of  the  tailor, 
And  with  eye  askew 

Eyed  the  feathery  railer, 
And,  with  a  frown 

At  the  dirt  and  rust, 
Took  the  old  cage  down, 

In  a  shower  of  dust, — 
Jack,  with  heart  aching, 

Felt  life  past  bearing, 
And  shivering,  quaking, 
All  hope  forsaking, 

Died,  swearing. 


JANE  LEWSON. 

Clasping  his  knee  with  one  soft  lady-hand, 

The  other  fingering  his  glass  of  wine, 
Black-raimented,  white-hair'd,  polite,  and  bland, 

With  mellow  voice  discourses  Doctor  Vine  : 
He  warms,  with  deep  eyes  stirr'd  to  thoughtful 
light, 

And  round  about  his  serious  talk  the  while, 
Kindly,  yet  pensive — worldly  wise,  yet  bright, 

Like  bloom  upon  the  blackthorn, blows  his  smile. 

AH,  strong  and  mighty  are  we  mortal  men ! 
Braving  the  whirlwind  on  a  ship  at  sea, 
Facing  the  grim  fort's  hundred  tongues  of 

fire, 

Ay,  and  in  England,  'neath  the  olive  branch, 
Pushing  a  stubborn    elbow    through    the 

crowd, 
To  get  among  the  heights  that  keep  the 

gold  ; 
But  there  is  might  and  might, — and  in  the 

one 
Our  dames  and  daughters  shame  us.    Come, 

my  friend, 
My  man  of   sinews, — conscious    of   your 

strength, 
Proud  of  your  well-won  wrestles  with  the 

world, — 
Hear  what  a  feeble  nature  can  endure  ! 

A  little  yellow  woman,  dress'd  in  black, 
With  weary  crow's-feet  crawling  round  the 
eyes, 


126 


LONDON  POEMS. 


And  solemn  voice,   that  seem'd  a  call  to 

prayer  ; 

Another  yellow  woman,  dress'd  in  black, 
Sad,  too,  and  solemn,  yet  with  bitterness 
Burn'd  in  upon  the  edges  of  her  lips, 
And    sharper,    thinner,    less    monotonous 

voice  ; 

And  last,  a  little  woman  auburn-hair  d, 
Pensive  a  little,  but  not  solemnised, 
And  pretty,  with  the  open  azure  eyes, 
The  white  soft  cheek,   the  little   mindless 

mouth, 
The  drooping  childish  languor.   There  they 

dwelt, 

In  a  great  dwelling  of  a  smoky  square 
In  Islington,  named  by  their  pious  friends, 
And  the  lean  Calvinistic  minister — 
The  Misses  Lewson,  and  their  sister  Jane. 

Miss  Sarah,  in  her  twenty-seventh  year, 
Knew  not  the  warmer  passions  of  her  sex, 
But  groan'd  both  day  and  night  to  save  her 

soul ; 

Miss  Susan,  two  years  younger,  had  regrets 
Her  sister  knew  not,  and  a  secret  pain 
Because  her  heart  was  withering — whence 

her  tongue 
Could  peal  full  sharp  at  times,  and  show  a 

sting  ; 
But  Jane  was  comely— might  have  cherish'd 

hopes, 

Since  she  was  only  twenty,  had  her  mind 
Been  hopefuller.      The  elders    ruled    the 

house. 

Obedience  and  meekness  to  their  will 
Was  a  familiar  habit  Jane  had  learn'd 
Full  early,  and  had  fitted  to  her  life 
So  closely,  'twas  a  portion  of  her  needs. 
She  gazed  on  them,  as  Eastern  worshippers 
Gaze  on  a  rayless  picture  of  the  sun. 
Her  acts  seem'd  ether  than  her  own  ;  her 

heart 

Kept  melancholy  time  to  theirs  ;  her  eyes 
Look'd  ever  unto  them  for  help  and  light ; 
Her  eyelids  droop'd  before  them  if  they  chid. 
A  woman  weak  and  dull,  yet  fair  of  face  ! 
Her  mother,  too,  had  been  a  comely  thing — 
A  bright-hair'd  child  wed  to  an  aged  man, 
A  heart  that  broke  because  the  man  was 

hard,— 
Not  like  the  grim  first  wife,  who  brought 

the  gold, 
And  yielded  to  his  melancholy  kiss 


The  melancholy  virgins.  Well,  the  thrco. 
Alone  in  all  the  world,  dwelt  in  the  house 
Their  father  left  them,  living  by  the  rents 
Of  certain  smaller  houses  of  the  poor. 
And  they  were  stern  to  wring  their  worldly 

dues— 

Not  charitable,  since  the  world  was  base, 
But  cold  to  all  men,  save  the  minister, 
Who  weekly  cast  the  darkness  of  his  blessi 
Over  their  chilly  table. 


All  around 
The  life  of  London  shifted  like  a  cloud, 
Men  sinned,  and  women  fell,  and  childien 

cried, 
And  Want  went  ragged  up  and  down  the 

lanes  ; 
While  the  two  hueless  sisters  dragg'd  their 

chain 

Self-woven,  pinch'd  their  lives  complexion- 
less, 

Keeping  their  feelings  quiet,  hard,  and  pure. 
But  Jane  felt  lonesome  in  the  world  ;  and 

oft, 

Pausing  amid  her  work,  gazed  sadly  forth 
Upon  the  dismal  square  of  wither'd  trees, 
The  dusty  grass  that  grew  within  the 

rails, 
The  garden-plots  where  here  and  there  a 

flower 
Grew  up,  and  sicken'd  in  the  smoke,  and 

died; 
And  when  the  sun  was  on  the  square,  and 

sounds 
C  ame  from  the  children  in  the  neighbouring 

streets, 
She  thought  of  happy  homes  among  the 

fields, 
And  brighter  faces.      When    she    walk'd 

abroad, 

The  busy  hum  of  life  oppress'd  her  heart 
And  frighten'd  her  :  she  did  not  raise  her 

eyes, 
But  stole  along, — a  sweet  shape  clad   in 

black, 

A  pale  and  pretty  lace,  at  which  the  men 
Stared  vacant  admiration.     Far  too  dull 
To  blame  her  gloomy  sisters  for  the  shape 
Her  young  days  took,  she  merely  knew  the 

world 
Was  drear  ;  and  if  at  times  she  dared  to 

dream 
Of  things  that  made  her  colour  come  and  go, 


ily 

- 


JANE  LEW  SON. 


127 


And  dared  to  hope  for  cheerier,  sunnier 

days, 

She  grew  the  wanner  afterwards,  and  felt 
Sad  and  ashamed.     The  dull  life  that  she 

wore, 

Like  to  a  gloomy  garment,  day  by  day, 
Was  a  familiar  life,  the  only  life 
She  clearly  understood.     Coldly  she  heard 
The  daily  tale  of  human  sin  and  wrong, 
And  the  small  thunders  of  the  Sunday  nights 
In  chapel.    All  around  her  were  the  streets, 
And  frightful  sounds,  and  gloomy  sunless 

faces. 

And  thus  with  tacit  dolour  she  resign'd 
Her  nature  to  the  hue  upon  the  cheeks 
Of  her  cold  sisters.    Yet  she  could  not  pray 
As  they  pray'd,  could  not  wholly  feel  and 

know 
The  blackness  of  mankind,  her  own  heart's 

sin  ; 
But  when  she  tried  to  get  to  God,   and 

yearn' d 

For  help  not  human,  she  could  only  cry, 
Feeling  a  loveless  and  a  useless  thing, 
Thinking  of  those  sweet  places  in  the  fields, 
Those  homes  whereon  the  sun  shone  plea- 
santly, 

And  happy  mothers  sat  at  cottage  doors 
Among  their  children. 

Save  for  household  work, 
She  would  have  wasted  soon.     From  week 

to  week 

The  burthen  lay  on  her, — the  gloomy  twain 
Being  too  busy  searching  for  their  souls, 
And  begging  God  above  to  spare  the  same. 
Yet  she  was  quiet  thus,  content  and  glad 
To  silent  drudgery,  such  as  saved  her  heart 
From  wilder  flutterings.     The  Sabbath  day 
Was  drearest :  drest  in  burial  black,  she  sat 
Those  solemn  hours  in  chapel,  listening, 
And  scarcely  heeding  what  she  heard,  but 

watching 

The  folk  around,  their  faces  and  their  dress, 
Or  gazing  at  the  sunshine  on  the  floor  ; 
And  service  over,  idly  pined  at  home, 
And,    looking    from    the   window   at     the 

square, 

Long'd  for  the  labour  of  the  coming  day. 
Her  sisters  watch'd  her  warily,  be  sure  ; 
And  though  their  hearts  were  pure  as  pure 

could  be, 
They  loved  her  none  the  better  foi  her  face. 


Love  is  as  cunning  as  disease  or  death, 
No  doctor's  skill  will  ward  him  off  or  cure, 
And  soon  he  found  this  pale  and  weary  girl, 
Despite  the  cloud  of  melancholy  life 
That  rain'd  around  her.     In  no  beauteous 

shape, 

In  guise  of  passionate  stripling  iris-eyed, 
Such  as  our  poets  picture  in  their  songs, 
Love  came  ; — but  in  a  gloomy  garb  of  one 
Whom  men  call'd  pious,  and  whose  holy 

talk 
Disarm'd  the  dragons.      'Twere  but  idle, 

friend, 

To  count  the  wiles  by  which  he  won  his  way 
Into  her  heart ;  how  she  vouchsafed  him  all 
The  passion  of  a  nature  not  too  strong  ; 
How,  when  the  first  wild  sunshine  dazzled 

her, 
The    woman    loved    so  blindly,    that  her 

thoughts 

Became  a  secret  trouble  in  the  house  ; 
And  how  at  last,  with  white  and  frighten'd 

face, 

She  glided  out  into  the  dark  one  night, 
And  vanish'd  with  no  utterance  of  farewell. 

The  sisters  gave  a  quick  and  scandall'd 

cry, 

And  sought  a  little  for  the  poor  flown  bird ; 
Then,  thinking  awful  things,  composed 

their  hearts 
In  silence,   pinch'd  their  narrow  nat  res 

more, 
And  waited.     'This  is  something  strange,' 

they  thought, 
1  Which  God  will  clear  ;  we  will  not  think 

the  worst, 

Although  she  was  a  thing  as  light  as  straw.' 
Nor  did  they  cry  their  fear  among  their 

friends, 

Hawking  a  secret  shame,  but  calmly  waited, 
Trusting  no  stain  would  fall  upon  their  chill 
And  frosty  reputations.  Weeks  pass'd  by  ; 
They  pray'd,  they  fasted,  yellowing  more 

and  more, 

They  waited  sternly  for  the  end,  and  heard 
The  timid  knock  come  to  the  door  at  last. 

It  was  a  dark  and  rainy  night ;  the  streets 
Were    gleaming    watery    underneath    the 

lamps, 

The  dismal  wind  scream'd  fitfully  without, 
And  made  within  a  melancholy  sound ; 


128 


LONDON  POEMS. 


And  the  faint  knock  came  to  the  door  at  last. 
The  sisters  look'd  in  one  another's  faces, 
And  knew  the  wanderer  had  returned  again, 
But  spoke  not ;  and  the  younger  sister  rose, 
Open'd  the  door,  peer'd  out  into  the  rain, 
And  saw  the  weary  figure  sharing  there, 
Holding  a  burthen  underneath  her  shawl. 
And  silently,  with  wan  and  timid  look, 
The  wanderer  slipt  in.    No  word  of  greeting 
Spake  either  of  the  sisters,  but  their  eyes 
Gleam'd  sharply,  and  they  waited.     White 

and  cold, 

Her  sweet  face  feebly  begging  for  a  word, 
Her  long  hair  dripping  loose  -md  wet,  stood 

Jane 
Before  them,  shivering,  clasping  tight  her 

load, 

In  the  dull  parlour  with  the  cheerless  fire. 
Till  Susan,  pointing,  cried  in  a  shrill  voice, 
'What  are  you  carrying  underneath  your 

shawl, 
Jane  Lewson?'   and  the  faint   despairing 

voice, 
While  the  rain  murmur'd  and  the  night-wind 

blew, 
Moan'd,  'It's  my  Baby!'  and  could  say  no 

more, 
For  the  wild  sisters  scream'd  and  raised  their 

hands, 
And    Jane  fell  quivering  down  upon  her 

knees, 

The  old  shawl  opening  show'd  a  child  asleep, 
And,  trebling  terror  with  a  piteous  cry, 
The  child  awaken'd. 

Pointing  to  the  door, 

With  twitching  lips  of  venom,  Susan  said — 
'  Go  ! '  and  the  elder  sister  echo'd  her 
More  sadly  and  more  solemnly.     But  Jane, 
Clinging  to  Sarah's  skirts,    implored  and 

moan'd, 

'  Don't  turn  me  out  !  my  little  girl  will  die  ! 
I  have  no  home  in  all  the  world  but  here  ; 
Kill  me,  but  do  not  drive  from  the  house  ! ' 
'Jane  Lewson,'  Susan  cried,  as  white  as 

death, 

'  Where  is  the  father  o  this  child  ? '  and  Jane 
Moan'd,   '  Gone,  go  ie,   gone  ; '  and  when 

she  named  his  name, 
And  how,  while  she  who  spake  in  sickness 

lay, 

He  secretly  had  fled  across  the  seas, 
They  shiver'd  to  the  hair.    Holding  her  hand 


Upon  her  heart,  the  elder  sister  spake 

In    dull    monotonous   voice — '  Look    up  ! 

look  up  ! 

Perhaps  'tis  not  so  ill  as  we  believed 
Are  you  a  wedded  woman  ?  '    The  reply 
Was  silentness  and  heavy  drooping  eyes, 
Yet  with  no  blush  around  the  quivering  lids ; 
And  Sarah,  freezing  into  ice,  spake  on 
In  dull  monotonous  voice—'  Your  sin  has 

brought 
Shame  on  us  all,  but  they  who  make  thear 

beds 
Must  sleep  upon  them  ;    go    away,    bad 

woman  ! 

The  third  of  what  our  father  left  is  yours, 
But  you  are  not  our  sister  any  more.' 
Still  moaning,  shuddering,  the  giil  begg'd 

on, 
Nor  ceased  to  rock  'the  babe  and  still  its 

cries, 
'  Kill  me,  but  do  not  drive  me  from  the 

house ! 

Put  any  pain  upon  me  that  you  please, 
But  do  not,  do  not,  drive  me  forth  again 
Into  the  dreadful  world  !    I  have  no  friends 
On  all  the  earth  save  you  ! '     The  sisters 

look'd 

At  one  another,  and  without  a  word 
Walk'd  from  the  room. 

Jane  sat  upon  the  floor, 
Soothing  the  child,  and  did  not  rise,   but 

waited  ; 

The  agony  and  terror  dried  her  t<  ars, 
And  she  could  only  listen,  praying  God 
That  He  would  soften  them  ;  and  the  little 

one 
Look'd  in  her  face  and  lau^h'd. 


A  weary  hour 
Pass'd  by,  and  then,  still  white,  and  stern, 

and  cold, 

The  sisters  enter'd,  and  the  elder  one 
Spake  without  prelude  :  '  We  have  talk'd  it 

o'er, 

Jane  Lewson,  and  have  settled  how  to  act ; 
You  have  a  claim  upon  us  :  will  you  take 
The  third  of  what  our  father  left,  and  find 
Another  home?  '    But  Jane  cried,  '  Do  not, 

do  not, 

Drive  me  away  ;  I  have  no  friends  save  you ; 
And  I  am  sorry.'  Trembling,  lor  her  heart 
Was  not  all  cold,  the  elder  icicle 


JANE  LEWSON. 


129 


Resumed  :    '  Take  what  is  left  you,  and  be 

gone, 

And  never  see  our  faces  any  more  ; 
Or  if  you  will,  stay  with  us  here,  but  only 
On  these  conditions  :  For  the  infant's  sake, 
And  for  the  sake  of  our  good  name,  our 

friends 

Must  never  know  the  miserable  child 
Is  yours  ;  but  we  will  have  it  given  out 
That,  being  lonely  and  unwedded  here, 
We  have  adopted  a  poor  tenant's  child, 
With  view  to  bring  it  up  in  godliness.' 
Jane  answer'd,  with  a  feeble  thrill  of  hope, 
'  Anything,  anything, — only  leave  me  not 
Alone  in  the  dark  world.'     '  Peace  ! '  Susan 

said, 

'  You  do  not  understand  :  the  child  herself 
Must  never  know  Jane  Lewson  is  her 

mother : 

Neither  by  word  nor  look  nor  tender  folly, 
Must  you  reveal  unto  the  child  her  shame, 
And  yours,  and  ours  ! '  Then,  with  a  bitter 

cry, 
And  a  wild  look,  Jane  cried,  '  And  must  my 

babe 
Not  know  me?'     'Never,'  Sarah  Lewson 

said  : 
'  For  the  babe's  sake,  for  yours,  for  ours, 

the  shame 
Must  not  be  utter' d,     See,  you  have  your 

choice : 

Take  what  our  father  gave  you,  and  depart, 
Or  stay  on  these  conditions.     We  are  firm. 
We  have  decided  kindly,  not  forgetting 
You  were  our  sister,    nor  that  this  poor 

child 

Is  blameless,  save  that  all  the  flesh  is  sin, 
But  not  forgetting,  either,  what  we  owe 
To  God  above  us.'   Weeping  o'er  the  child, 
Not  rising  yet,  Jane  answer'd,  '  I  will  stay  ; 
Yes,  gladly,  for  the  little  baby's  sake, 
That  folk  may  never  call  it  cruel  names. ' 
And  the  stern  sisters  took  from  off  the  shelf 
The  great  old  Bible,  placed  it  in  her  hands 
And  made  her  kiss  it,  swearing  before  God 
Never  to  any  one  in  all  the  world, 
Not  even  to  the  child  itself,  to  tell 
She  was  its  sinful  mother.    Wild  and  dazed, 
She    sware    upon    the    Book.      'That   is 

enough,' 

Said  Sarah ;  'but,  Jane  Lewson,  never  again 
Speak  to  us  of  the  evil  that  has  pass'd  ; 
Live  with  us  as  you  used  to  do,  and  ask 


The  grace  of  God,  who  has  been  kinder  far 
Than  you  deserved.' 

Thus,  friend,  these  icicles 
Dealt  their  hard  measure,  deeming  that  they 

did 

A  virtuous  and  a  righteous  deed  ;   and  Jane, 
The  worn  and  mindless  woman,  sank  again 
Into  submission  and  house-drudgery, 
Comforted  that  she  daily  saw  her  child, 
And  that  her  shame  was  hidden  from  the 

world, 

And  that  the  child  would  never  suffer  scorn 
Because  a  sinner  bore  it.     But  her  heart 
Was  a  bruised  reed,  the  little  sunny  hue 
Had  gone  from  all  things ;  and  whene'er 

she  pray'd, 
She  thought  the  great  cold  God  above  her 

head 
Dwelt  on  a  frosty  throne  and  did  not  hear. 


Yet  He,   the  Almighty   Lord   of  this  our 

breath, 

Did  see  and  hear,  and  surely  pitied  too, 
If  God  can  pity, — but  He  works  as  God, 
Not  man,  and  so  we  cannot  understand. 

No  whisper  of  reproach,  no  spoken  word, 
Troubled  with  memories  of  her  sinfulness 
The  suffering  woman  ;  yet  her  daily  life 
Became  a  quiet  sorrow.     In  the  house 
She  labour' d  with  her  hands  from  morn  to 

night, 

Seeing  few  faces  save  the  pensive  ones 
Whose  yellow  holiness  she  bow'd  before  ; 
And  tacitly  they  suffer'd  her  to  sink 
Into  the  household  drudge, — with  privilege 
Upon  the  Sabbath  day  to  dress  in  black, 
Sit  in  the  sunless  house  or  go  to  prayer, — 
So  idle,  that  her  thoughts  could  travel  back 
To  shame  and  bitterness.     Her  only  joy 
Was  when  she  gave  her  little  girl  the  breast, 
(They  dared  not  rob  her  weary  heart  of  that, ) 
When,  seated  all  alone,  she  felt  it  suck, 
And,  as  the  little  lips  drew  forth  the  milk, 
Felt  drowsily  resign'd,  and  closed  her  eyes, 
And  trembled,   and  could  feel  the  happy 
tears. 

There  came  a  quiet  gathering  in  the  house, 
And  by  the  gloomy  minister  the  child 
Was  christen'd ;  and  the  name  he  gave  to  her 

K 


130 


LONDON  POEMS. 


Was  'Margaret  Lewson.'    For  the  sisters 

said, 

'  Her  mother  being  buried,  as  it  were, 
The  girl  shall  take  our  name.'    And  Jane 

sat  by, 

And  heard  the  pious  lie  with  aching  heart, 
And  ever  after  that  her  trouble  grew. 

Soon,  when  the  sound  of  little  feet  were 

heard 

In  the  dull  dwelling,  and  a  baby-voice 
Call'd  at  the  mother's  heart,  Jane  thrill'd 

and  heard, 

But  even  as  she  listen'd  the  sweet  sounds 
Would  seem  to  die  into  the  cloud  that  hid 
The  great  cold  God  above  her.    Margaret 
Grew  to  a  little  wildling,  quick  and  bright, 
Black-eyed,   black-hair'd,    and   passionate 

and  quick, 
Not  like  its  mother  ;  fierce  and  wild  when 

chid, 

So  that  the  gloomy  sisters  often  thought, 
'  There  is  a  curse  upon  it  ; '  yet  they  grew 
To  love  the  little  wildling  unaware, 
Indulged  it  in  their  stern  and  solemn  way, 
More  cheer'd  than  they  believed  by  its  shrill 

laugh 

Within  the  dismal  dwelling.     But  the  child 
Clung  most  to  Jane,  and  though,  when  first 

it learn'd 

To  call  her  by  her  Christian  name,  the  sound 
Bruised  the  poor  suffering  heart,  that  wore 

away  ; 

And  all  the  little  troubles  of  the  child, 
The  pretty  joys,  the  peevish  fits,  the  bursts 
Of  passion,  work'd  upon  her  nature  so, 
That  all  her  comfort  was  to  snatch  it  up, 
And  cover  it  with  kisses  secretly. 
Wilful  and  passionate,  yet  loving  too, 
Grew  Margaret,— an  echo  in  a  cave 
Of  human  life  without ;  clinging  to  Jane, 
Who  never  had  the  heart  to  fondle  it 
Before  her  sisters  ;  not  afraid  at  times 
To  pinch  the  thin,  worn  arms,  or  pull  the 

hairs 

Upon  the  aching  head,  but  afterwards 
Curing  the  pain  with  kisses  and  with  tears. 
So  that  as  time  wore  on  the  mother's  heart 
Grew  tenderer  to  its  trouble  than  before. 

Then  later,  when  the  little  girl  went  forth 
To  school  hard  by,  the  motion  and  the  light 


Hied  from  the  house  ;  and  all  the  morning 

hours 
The  thin  face  came  and  went  against  the 

panes, 

Looking  out  townward,— till  the  little  shape 
Appear'd  out  of  the  cloud,  and  pale  eyes 

grew 

Dim  to  its  coming.     As  the  years  went  on, 
The  mother,  with  the  agony  in  her  heart 
She  could  not  utter,  quietly  subdued 
Her  nature  to  a  listening  watchfulness  : 
Her  face  grew  settled  to  expectant  calm, 
Her  vision  penetrated  things  around 
And  gazed  at  something  lying  far  beyond, 
Her  very  foot  linger'd  about  the  house, 
As  if  she  loiter' d  hearkening  for  a  sound 
Out  of  the  world.     For  Margaret,  as  she 

grew, 

Was  wilder  and  more  wilful,  openly 
Master' d  the  gloomy  virgins,  and  escaped 
The  pious  atmosphere  they  daily  breathed 
To  gambol  in  a  freer,  fresher  air  ; 
And  Jane  would  think,  '  'Twill  kill  me,  if 

my  child 
Should  turn  out  wicked.'     Mindless  though 

she  was, 

And  feeble,  yet  the  trouble  made  her  sense 
Quick,  sharp,  and  subtle  to  perceive  and 

watch. 

A  little  word  upon  the  girlish  tongue 
Could  sting  her, — nay,  a  light  upon  the  face, 
A  kindling  of  the  eye,  a  look  the  child 
Wore  when  asleep,  would  trouble  her  for 

days, 

Carrying  strangest  import.     So  she  waited, 
Watching  and  listening, — while  the  young 

new  life 

Drew  in  the  air,  and  throve,  absorbing  hues 
Out  of  a  thousand  trivial  lights  and  shades 
That  hover'd  lightly  round  it.    Still  to  Jane 
The  habit  of  submission  clung  :  she  watch'd 
The  wiser  sterner  faces  oftentimes, 
Trembling  for  confirmation  of  her  fears  ; 
And  nightly  pray'd  that  God,  who  was  so 

just, 

So  hard  to  those  who  went  astray  at  all, 
Would  aid  her  sisters,  helping  them  to  make 
The  little  Margaret  better  as  she  grew,— 
Waking  her  secret  trouble  evermore 
With  countless,  nameless  acts  of  help  and 

love, 

And  humble  admonition, — comforted 
By  secret  fondlings  of  the  little  arms, 


JANE   LEWS  ON. 


Or  kisses  on  the  tiny,  wilful  mouth 
Apart  in  childish  slumber. 

Thus  the  years 
Pass'd  over  her  like   pensive  clouds,  and 

melted 

Into  that  dewy  glimmer  on  the  brain, 
Wh  ich  men  call  Memory.  Wherefore  recount 
The  little  joys  and  sorrows  of  the  time  : 
The  hours  when  sickness  came,  and  thought 

itself 
Tick'd  like  a  death-watch,— all   the  daily 

hopes 

And  impulses  and  fears  ?    Enough  to  tell. 
That  all  went  onward  like  a  troubled  stream, 
Until  the  sisters,  worn  and  growing  old, 
Felt  the  still  angel  coming  nearer,  nearer, 
Scattering  sleep-dust  on  uplooking  eyes  ; 
And  Jane,  though  in  her  prime,  was  turning 

gray; 

And  Margaret  was  a  maiden  flower  full- 
blown. 

A  passion-flower  ! — a  maiden  whose  rich 

heart 
Burn'd  with  intensest  fire  that  turn'd  the 

light 

Of  the  sweet  eyes  into  a  warm  dark  dew  ; 
One  of  those  shapes  so  marvellously  made, 
Strung  so  intensely,  that  a  finger-press, 
The  dropping  of  a  stray  curl  unaware 
Upon  the  naked  breast,  a  look,  a  tone, 
Can  vibrate  to  the  very  roots  of  life, 
And  draw  from  out  the  spirit  light  that 

seems 

To  scorch  the  tender  cheeks  it  shines  upon  ; 
A  nature  running  o'er  with  ecstasy 
Of  very  being,  an  appalling  splendour 
Of  animal  sensation,  loveliness 
Like  to  the  dazzling  panther's  ;  yet,  withal, 
The  gentle,  wilful,  clinging  sense  of  love, 
Which  makes  a  virgin's  soul.     It  seem'd, 

indeed, 

The  gloomy  dwelling  and  the  dismal  days, 
Gloaming  upon  her  heart,  had  lent  this 

show 

Of  shining  life  a  melancholy  shade 
That  trebled  it  in  beauty.     Such  a  heart 
Needed  no  busy  world  to  make  it  beat : 
It  could  throb  burningly  in  solitude  ; 
Since    kindly    Heaven    gave    it    strength 

enough 

To  rock  the  languid  blood  into  the  brains 
Of  twenty  smaller  natures. 


Then  the  pain, 
The    wonder,    deepen'd    on  the   mother's 

heart, — 
Her  mother,  her  worn  mother,  whom  she 

knew  not 
To  be  her  mother.     As  she  might  have 

watch'd 

A  wondrous  spirit  from  another  world, 
Jane  Lewson  watch'd  her  child.    Could  this 

fair  girl, — 
This  wild  and  dazzling  life,   be  born   of 

her!— 

A  lightning  flash  struck  from  a  pensive  cloud 
The  wan  still  moon  is  drinking?    Like  a 

woman 

Who  has  been  sick  in  darkness  many  days, 
And  steps  into  the  sunshine,  Jane  beheld 
Her  daughter,   and  felt  blind.     A  terror 

grew 

Upon  her,  that  the  smother'd  sense  of  pride 
Lack'd  power  to  kill.      She  pray'd,    she 

wept,  she  dream'd, 

And  thought,  if  Margaret's  had  been  a  face 
More  like  the  common  faces  of  the  streets, 
'Twould  have  been  better.     With  this  feel- 
ing, grew 

The  sense  of  her  own  secret.     Oftentimes 
A  look  from  Margaret  brought  the  feeble 

blush 

Into  the  bloodless  cheek  ; — creeping  away 
Into  her  chamber,  Jane  would  wring  her 

hands, 
Moaning  in  pain,  '  God  help  me !     If  she 

knew! 

Ah,  if  she  knew  ! '   And  then  for  many  days 
Would  haunt  the  dwelling  fearfully,  afraid 
To  look  on  what  she  loved, — till  once  again, 
Some  little  kindness,   some  sweet  look  or 

tone, 

A  happy  kiss,  would  bring  her  courage  back 
And  cheer  her. 

Nor  had  Margaret  fail'd  to  win 
The  hard-won  sisters  ;  oft  their  frosty  eyes 
Enlarged  themselves  upon  her  and  grew 

thaw'd— 

In  secret  she  was  mistress  over  both — 
And  in  their  loveless  way,  they  also  felt 
A  frighten'd  pleasure  in  the  beauteous  thing 
That  brighten' d  the  dull  dwelling. 

Oftentimes, 
The  fiery  maiden-nature  flashing  forth 


132 


LONDON  POEMS. 


In  wilful  act  or  speech  or  evil  looks, 
Deepen'd  Jane's  terror.     Margaret  heeded 

not 

The  sisters'  pious  teachings,  did  not  show 
A  godly  inclination, — nay,  at  times 
Mock'd  openly.     Ah,  had  she  guess'd  the 

pain, 

The  fear,  the  agony,  such  mockings  gave 
Her  mother,  her  worn  mother,  whom  she 

knew  not 

To  be  her  mother  !     In  her  secret  heart 
Jane  deem'd  her  own  deep  sorrows  all  had 

come 

Because  she  had  not,  in  her  dreary  youth, 
Been  godly  ;  and  as  such  flashes  as  she 

saw 
Gleam  from  her  girl,  seem'd  wicked  things 

indeed  ; 

And  at  such  times  the  weary  woman's  eyes 
Would  seek  the  sunless  faces,  searching 

them 
For  cheer  or  warning. 

In  its  season  came 
That  light  which  takes  from  others  what  it 

gives 

To  him  or  her  who,  standing  glorified, 
Awaits  it.  'Tis  the  old,  sad  mystery  : 
No  gift  of  love  that  comes  upon  a  life 
But  means  another's  loss.  The  new  sweet 

joy. 

That  play'd  in  tender  colours  and  mild  fire 
On  Margaret's  cheek,  upon   the  mother's 

heart 
Fell  like  a  firebrand. 

For  to  Jane,  her  friend, 
Her  dearest  in  the  household  from  the  first, 
Her  mother,  her  worn  mother,  whom  she 

knew  not 

To  be  her  mother,  Margaret  first  told 
The  terror — how  she  loved  and  was  beloved; 
And  seated  at  Jane's  feet,  with  eyes  upturn'd, 
Playing  with  the  worn  fingers,  she  exclaim'd, 
'  I  love  him,  Jane  !  and  you  will  love  him 

too! 

I  will  not  marry  any  other  man  ! ' 
And  suddenly  Jane  felt  as  if  the  Lord 
Had   come  behind  her  in  the  dark  and 

breathed 

A  burning  fire  upon  her.     For  she  thought, 
1  My  child  will  go  away,  and  I  shall  die  ! ' 
But  only  murmur'd,  'Marry,  Margaret? 


You  are  too  young  to  marry  ! ' 

face 
Was  like  a  murder'd  woman's. 


And  the  pain 

The  agony,  deepen'd,  when  the  lover's  face 
Came  smiling  to  the  dwelling,  young  and 

bright 
With  pitiless  gladness.    Jane  was  still,  and 

moan'd, 

1  My  child  will  go  away,  and  I  shall  die  ! ' 
And  look'd  upon  her  sisters,  and  could  see 
They  pitied  her  ;  but  their  stetn  faces  said, 
'This  is  God's  will !  the  just  God  governs 

all! 
How  should  we  cross  such  love  ? '  adding, 

'  Beware, — 

For  our  sakes,  for  your  own,  but  chief  of  all 
For  her  sake  whom  you  love,  remember 

now! 
Pray,  and  be  silent ! '     And  the  wounded 

heart 

Cried  up  to  God  again,  and  from  the  sky 
No  answer  came  ;  when,  crush'd  beneath 

her  pain, 

The  woman  sicken'd,  lay  upon  her  bed, 
And  thought  her  time  was  come. 

Most  tenderly 

Her  daughter  nursed  her  ;  little  fathoming 
The  meaning  of  the  wild  and  yearning  look 
That  made  the  white  face  sweet  and  beau- 
tiful ; 

For  Jane  was  saying,  '  Lord,  I  want  to  die! 
My  child  would  leave  me,  or  my  useless  life 
Would  turn  a  sorrow  to  her,  if  I  stay'd  : 
Lord,  let  me  die  ! '     Yea,  the  dull  nature 

clung 

Still  into  silence,  with  the  still  resolve 
Of  mightier  natures.     Thinking  she  would 

die, 

Jane  lay  as  in  a  painless  dream,  and  watch'd 
The  bright  face  stir  around  her,  following 
The  shape  about  the  room,  and  praying  still 
For    strength — so    happy    in  her    drowsy 

dream, 
That  she  went  chill  at  times,  and  felt  that 

thoughts 

So  tranquil  were  a  sin.     A  darker  hour 
Gloam'd  soon  upon  her  brain.     She  could 

not  see 
The  face  she  loved ;  murmur'd  delirious 

words  ; 


her 
un, 


JANE  LEWS  ON. 


133 


And  in  the  weary  watches  of  the  night, 
Moaning  and  wringing  hands,  with  closed 

eyes, 
Cried  '  Margaret !  Margaret  ! '     Then  the 

sisters  sought 

To  lead  the  girl  away,  lest  she  should  hear 
The  secret  ;   but  she  conquer'd,   and  re- 

main'd ; 

id  one  still  evening,  when  the  quiet  fire 
/as  making  ghosts  that  quiver'd  on  the 

floor 

To  the  faint  time-piece  ticking,  Jane  awoke, 
lazed  long  and  strangely  at  the  shining 

face, 
/aved  her  thin  arms,  cried,   '  Margaret ! 

Margaret ! 
Where  are  you,  Margaret  ?   Have  you  gone 

away? 
Come  to  your  mother  ! '     The  wild  cry  of 

pain 

Startled  the  maiden,  but  she  only  thought 
The  fever'd  woman  raved.     Twining  her 

arms 
Around  Jane's  neck,  she  murmur'd,  '  I  am 

here ! ' 

Weeping  and  kissing ;  but  the  woman  sigh'd 
And  shiver'd,  crying  feebly,  '  Let  me  die  ! 
My  little  girl  has  gone  into  the  town, 
And  she  has  learn'd  to  call  me   wicked 

names, 
And  will  not  come  again  ! ' 

When,  wearied  out, 
Jane  sank  to  troubled  sleep,  her  child  sat 

still, 
Thinking  of    those    strange  words ;    and 

though  at  last 
She  shut  them  from  her  thought  as  idle 

dream, 
Their  pain  return'd  upon  her.     The  next 

day 

She  spake  unto  the  sisters  of  the  same, 
Adding,  in  a  low  voice,  '  She  talk'd  of  me, 
And  moan'd  out  loudly  for  a  little  child — 
Has  she  a  child  ? '     The  first  quick  flash  of 

fear 

Died  from  the  yellow  visages  unseen, 
And  they  were  calm.     '  Delirium  ! '  Sarah 

said  ; 

1  But  you,  my  child,  must  watch  her  sick- 
bed less — 
You  are  too  young,  too  weak,  to  bear  such 

things. ' 


And  this  time  Margaret  did  not  say  a  word, 
But  yielded,  thinking,  '  It  is  very  strange  !— 
There  is  a  mystery,  and  I  will  watch  : 
Can  Jane  have  had  a  child  ? ' 

That  very  day 
The  dark  mists  roll'd  from  the  sick  woman's 

brain, 
And  she  awoke,  remembering  nought,  and 

saw 
The  sisters  watching  her.     Two  days  they 

watch"  d  ; 

And  spake  but  very  little,  though  they  saw 
The  wan  eyes  wander  with  a  hungry  look, 
Seeking  the  face  they  loved.  Then  Sarah 

took 

Jane's  hand,  and  spake  more  gently,  sisterly, 
(Such  natures,  friend,  grow  kinder  as  they 

age,) 
Than  she  had  done  for  many  years,  and 

told 

Of  those  wild  words  utter'd  while  she  was  ill; 
Jane  moan'd  and  hid  her  face  ;  but  Sarah 

said, 
'  We  do  not  blame  you,  and  perchance  the 

Lord 
Spake  through  you !    We  have  thought  it 

o'er,  and  pray'd : 
Now  listen,   Jane.      Since  that    unhappy 

night, 
We  have  not  spoken  of  your  shame,  yet 

know 

You  have  repented. '  With  her  face  still  hid, 
Jane  falter'd,  '  Let  me  die  ! '  but  Sarah  said, 
'  We  do  not  think,  Jane  Lewson,  you  will 

live  ; 

So  mark  me  well.     If,  ere  you  go  away, 
You  feel  that  you  could  go  more  cheerfully, 
If  you  are  certain  that  it  is  not  sin, 
Poor  Margaret  shall  know  she  is  your  child; 
We  will  not,  now  you  die,  deny  you  this  ; 
And  Margaret  will  be  silent  of  the  shame, — 
And,   lest  you  break  your  oath  upon  the 

Word, 
Our  lips  shall  tell  her."     Still  Jane  Lewson 

hid 

Her  face  ;  and  all  was  quiet  in  the  room, 
Save  for  a  shivering  sound  and  feeble  crying. 
But  suddenly  Jane  lifted  up  her  face, 
Beauteous  beyond  all  beauty  given  to  joy, 
And  quickly  whispering,  press'd  the  chilly 

hand — 
'  I  will  not  speak  1  I  will  not  hurt  my  child 


134 


LONDON  POEMS. 


So  cruelly  ! — the  child  shall  never  know  ! 
And  I  will  go  in  silence  to  my  grave, 
Leaving  her  happy, — and  perhaps  the  Lord 
Will  pardon  me  ! '     Then,  for  the  first  last 

time, 
The  sisters  look'd  on  Jane  with  different 

eyes, 

Admiring  sternly,  with  no  words  of  praise, 
Her  they  had  scorn' d  for  feebleness  so  long. 

Even  then  the  watchers  in  the  chamber 

heard 

A  sound  that  thrill'd  them  through, — a  rust- 
ling dress, 

A  deep  hard  breathing  as  of  one  in  pain  ; 
And  pointing  with  her  hand  Jane  scream'd 

aloud  ; 

And  turning  suddenly  the  sisters  saw 
A  face  as  white  as  marble,  yet  illumed 
By  great  eyes  flashing  with  a  terrible  flame 
That  made  them  quail.   And  in  a  dangerous 

voice, 

As  low  as  a  snake's  hissing,  Margaret  said, 
'  I  have  heard  all ! '    Then  the  great  eyes 

were  turn'd 
On  Jane,   and  for  a  moment  they  were 

cold; 

But  all  at  once  the  breathless  agony 
Of  recognition  struck  upon  her  heart, 
The  bosom  heaved  and  moan'd,  the  bright 

tears  burst, 

And  Margaret  flung  herself  upon  the  bed, 
Clasping  her  shivering  mother  ;  and  at  first 
Jane  shrank  away, — but  soon  the  wondrous 

love 
Master'd  her, — she  could  smile  and  kiss  and 

cry— 
And  hear  the  dear  wild  voice  cry,  '  Mother, 

mother ! ' 
And  see  the  bright  face  through  her  tears, 

and  feel 
That  Love  was  there. 


After  the  first  strange  bliss 
Of  meeting,  both  were  stiller.    Jane  could 

weep, 

And  bear  to  feel  so  happy.     Margaret 
Clang  to  her  mother,  breathed  her  bliss  upon 

her, 

Fondling  the  silver'd  tresses,  covering 
The  thin  hard  hand  with  kisses  and  with 

tears, 


_ 

inps 


her 

- 


Trying  to  say  a  thousand  merry  things 
That  died  in  sobs  and  tears,  and  only  say 

ing, 

For  all  the  utterance  of  her  speechful  heart, 
1  Mother,    my   mother  !  '      Suddenly    her 

shame 
Came    back    upon   the    woman,    and 

turn'd 

To  seek  her  sisters'  faces  piteously, 
But  they  had  stolen  from  the  happy  room  ; 
Whereon  again  she  murmur'd,  '  Let  me  die! 
I  am  a  wicked  woman,  Margaret ! 
Why  did  you  listen  ? '     But  a  second  burst 
Of  love  and  blissful  pain,  and  bitter  things 
Hurl'd  at  the  cruel  sisters,  answer'd  her  ; 
And  more  tears  flow'd,  and  more  fond  kisses 

brush' d 

The  tears  away, — until  at  last  Jane  cried, 
'  Dear,  I  could  go  away  not  weeping  now — 
God  is  so  gentle  with  me  ! ' 

But  He,  who  drew 
Thus  from  His  cloud  at  last  and  look'd  so 

kind, 
Will'd  that  Jane  Lewson  should  not  die  so 

soon. 

The  agony  did  not  kill  her,  and  the  joy 
Sent  a  fresh  life  into  her  languid  blood 
And  saved  her.  So  that  soon  she  rose  from 

bed, 

To  see  the  sunshine  on  her  daughter's  face, 
To  see  the  sunless  sisters,  who  again 
Look'd  cold  as  ever. 

But  a  burning  fire 
From  Margaret  scorch'd  them  to  the  heart, 

because 
They  loved  the  girl  ;  she4  heap'd  upon  their 

heads 

Rage  and  reproaches,  mockery  and  scorn, 
Until  they  cried,  '  You  are  a  wicked  girl ! 
Jane  Lewson's  shame  is  on  you.     After  this 
We  cannot  dwell  together  any  more.' 
And  Margaret  would  have  answer'd  fiercelier 

still, 

But  that  her  feeble  mother,  piteously 
Gazing  at  them  to  whom  in  spite  of  all 
Her  heart  was  humble,  begg'd  her  on  her 

knees 

For  silence;  and,  thus  conquer'd,  Margaret 
Answer'd  her  aunts  with  kisses  and  with 

tears 
Shower'd  on  her  mother's  face. 


JANE  LEWSON—  LANGLEY  LANE. 


'35 


That  evening, 

Margaret  held  her  mother  round  the  neck, 
And  led  her  to  her  lover  in  the  house, 
And  with  her  lips  set  firm  together,  saying, 
'This  is  my  dear,  dear  mother,'  told  him 

all, 

Concealing  nothing.     For  a  time,  the  man 
Look'd  startled  and  appall'd  ;   but  being 

made 

Of  clay  not  base,  he  smiling  spake  at  last, 
And  stooping  softly,  kiss'd  the  thin  worn 

hand — 

'  She  is  my  mother,  too,-  -and  we  will  dwell 
Together ! ' 

And  they  dwelt  together, — leaving 
The  dismal  dwelling  in  the  smoky  square, 
To  dwell  within  a  cottage  close  to  town  ; 
But  Jane  lived  with  them  only  foi  a  year, 
And  then,  because  the  heart  that  had  been 

used 

To  suffering  so  long  could  not  endure 
To    be    so  happy,    died ;    worn  out   and 

tired, 
Kissing    her    child ;    and    as    her    dying 

thoughts 
Went  back  along  the  years,  the  suffering 

seem'd 

Not  such  a  thankless  suffering  after  all, 
But  like  a  faded  garment  one  has  learn'd 
To  love  through  habit ; — and  the  woman 

cried 
On  her  stern  sisters  with  her  dying  breath. 


LANGLEY  LANE. 

A  LOVE   POEM. 

,    IN  all  the  land,  range  up,  range  down, 

Is  there  ever  a  place  so  pleasant  and 

sweet, 

As  Langley  Lane,  in  London  town, 
Just  out  of  the  bustle  of   square  and 

street? 

Little  white  cottages,  all  in  a  row, 
Gardens,  where  bachelors'-buttons  grow, 

Swallows'  nests  in  roof  and  wall, 
And  up  above  the  still  blue  sky, 
Where  the  woolly-white  clouds  go  sailing 

by,— 
I  seem  to  be  able  to  see  it  all ! 


For  now,  in  summer,  I  take  my  chair, 
And  sit  outside  in  the  sun,  and  hear 
The  distant  murmur  of  street  and  square, 
And  the  swallows  and  sparrows  chirping 

near; 

And  Fanny,  who  lives  just  over  the  way, 
Comes  running  many  a  time  each  day, 
With  her  little  hand's-touch  so  warm  and 

kind; 
And  I  smile  and  talk,  with  the  sun  on  my 

cheek, 
And  the  little  live  hand  seems  to  stir  and 

speak, — 
For  Fanny  is  dumb  and  I  am  blind. 

Fanny  is  sweet  thirteen,  and  she 

Has  fine  black  ringlets,  and  dark  eyes 

clear, 
And  I  am  older  by  summers  three, — 

Why  should  we  hold  one  another  so  dear? 
Because  she  cannot  utter  a  word, 
Nor  hear  the  music  of  bee  or  bird, 

The  water-cart's  splash,  or  the  milkman's 

call. 

Because  I  have  never  seen  the  sky, 
Nor  the  little  singers  that  hum  and  fly, — 

Yet  know  she  is  gazing  upon  them  all. 

For  the  sun  is  shining,  the  swallows  fly, 

The  bees  and  the  blue-flies  murmur  low, 
And  I  hear  the  water-cart  go  by, 
With  its  cool  splash-splash    down  the 

dusty  row  ; 

And  the  little  one,  close  at  my  side,  per- 
ceives 

Mine  eyes  upraised  to  the  cottage  eaves, 
Where  birds  are   chirping    in    summer 

shine, 
And  I  hear,  though   I  cannot  look,  and 

she, 
Though  she  cannot  hear,  can  the  singers 

see, — 
And  the  little  soft  fingers  flutter  in  mine. 

Hath  not  the  dear  little  hand  a  tongue, 
When  it  stirs  on  my  palm  for  the  love  of 
me? 

Do  I  not  know  she  is  pretty  and  young  ? 
Hath  not  my  soul  an  eye  to  see  ? 

'Tis  pleasure  to  make  one's  bosom  stir, 

To  wonder  how  things  appear  to  her, 
That  I  only  hear  as  they  pass  around  ; 


136 


LONDON  POEMS. 


And  as  long  as  we  sit  in  the  music  and 

light, 

She  is  happy  to  keep  God's  sight, 
And  7  am  happy  to  keep  God's  sound. 

Why,   I    know    her   face,   though    I    am 

blind— 

I  made  it  of  music  long  ago  : 
Strange  large  eyes,  and  dark  hair  twined 
Round  the  pensive  light  of  a  brow  of 

snow  ; 

And  when  I  sit  by  my  little  one, 
And  hold  her  hand,  and  talk  in  the  sun, 
And  hear  the    music    that    haunts   the 

place, 

I  know  she  is  raising  her  eyes  to  me, 
And  guessing  how  gentle  my  voice  must 

be, 
And  seeing  the  music  upon  my  face. 

Though,  if  ever  Lord  God  should  grant  me 

a  prayer, 

(I  know  the  fancy  is  only  vain,) 
I  should  pray  :  Just  once,  when  the  weather 

is  fair, 

To  see  little  Fanny  and  Langley  Lane  ; 
Though   Fanny,    perhaps,  would  pray  to 

hear 
The  voice  of  the  friend  that  she  holds  so 

dear, 
The  song  of  the  birds,  the  hum  of  the 

street,— 

It  is  better  to  be  as  we  have  been,— 
Each  keeping  up  something,  unheard,  un- 
seen, 

To  make  God's  heaven  more  strange  and 
sweet. 

Ah !  life  is  pleasant  in  Langley  Lane ! 
There    is    always    something    sweet    to 

hear ; 
Chirping  of  birds,  or  patter  of  rain  ; 

And  Fanny,  my  little  one,  always  near  ; 
And  though  I  am  weak,  and  cannot  live 

long, 

And  Fanny,  my  darling,  is  far  from  strong, 

And  though  we  can  never  married  be, — 

What  then  ? — since  we  hold  one  another  so 

dear, 
For  the  sake  of  the  pleasure  one  cannot 

hear, 
And  the  pleasure  that  only  one  can  see  ? 


EDWARD   CROWHURST', 

OR,    '  A   NEW   POET.' 


Potts,  in  his  dusty  chamber,  writes, 

A  dilettante  lord  to  please  : 
A  ray  of  country  sunshine  lights 

The  foggy  region  ruled  by  these  ; 
Flock,  kind  advisers,  critics  sage, 

To  damn  the  simple  country  clown, — 
The  mud  of  English  patronage 

Grows  round  his  feet,  and  keeps  him  down. 

1  THIS  little  mean-faced  duodecimo, 
"Poems    by    Edward    Crowhurst,    La- 
bourer," 

This  coarsely-printed  little  book  of  rhymes, 
Contains  within  the  goodliest  gift  of  song 
The  gods  have  graced  us  with  for  many  a 

day : 

A  crystal  clearness,  as  of  running  brooks. 
A  music,  as  of  green  boughs  murmuring, 
A  peeping  of  fresh  thoughts  in  shady 

places 
Like  violets  new-blown,  a  gleam  of  dew 

drops, 

A  sober,  settled,  greenness  of  repose,— 
And  lying  over  all,  in  level  beams, 
Transparent,  sweet,  and  unmistakable, 

The  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or  land. 

• 

1  Let  all  the  greater  and  the  lesser  lights 

Regard  these  lines  upon  a  Wood  in 
Spring, 

Or  those  which  follow,  call'd  "  the  Barley- 
Bird," 

And  then  regard  their  laurels.     Melody 

More  sweet  was  never  blown  through  pas- 
toral pipe 

In  Britain,  since  the  Scottish  Ramsay  died. 

Nor  let  the  squeamish  dreamers  of  our 
time, 

Our  rainbow  bards,  despise  such  song  as 
this, 

Wealthy  in  images  the  poor  man  knows, 

And  household  chords  that  make  the  women 
weep. 

Simply  yet  subtly,  Edward  Crowhurst 
works : 

Singing  of  lowly  truths  and  homely  things — 

Death  snatching  up  a  cotter's  child  at 
play, 


EDWARD   CROWHURST. 


'37 


Light  flashing  from  far  worlds  on  dying 

eyes 

That  never  saw  beyond  their  native  fields, 
The  pathos  and  the  power  of  common  life  ; 
And  while,  perchance,  his  deeper  vein  runs 

on 

Less  heeded,  by  a  random  touch  is  waken'd 
A  scent,  a  flower-tint,  a  wave  of  wings, 
A  sense  of  rustling  boughs  and  running 

brooks, 
Touch'd  by  whose  spell  the  soul  is  stirr'd, 

and  eyes 
Gaze  on  the  dark  world  round  them,  and 

are  dim. 

* 

'This  Mister  Crowhurst  is  a  poor  young 

man, 

Uneducated,  doom'd  to  earn  his  bread 
By  working  daily  at  the  plough  ;  and  yet, 
Sometimes  in  midst  of  toil,  sometimes  at 

night, 

Whenever  he  could  snatch  a  little  time, 
Hath  written  down  (he  taught  himself  to 

write  !) 

His  simple  verses.     Is  it  meet,  we  ask, 
A  nature  so  superb  should  languish  thus  ? 
Nay,  he  deserves,  if  ever  man  deserved, 
The  succour  of  the  rich  and  high  in  place, 
The  opportunity  to  labour  less, 
And  use  those  truly  wondrous  gifts  of  his 
In  modest  competence  ;  and  therewithal, 
Kindness,  encouragement,  and  good  ad- 
vice, 
Such  as  the  cultured  give.     Even  now,  we 

hear, 

A  certain  sum  of  money  is  subscribed, 
Enough  to  furnish  well  his  present  needs. 
Among    the    donors,   named   for    honour 

here, 

We  note  the  noble  Earl  of  Chremiton, 
Lord  Phidippus,  Lord  Gnathos,  Lady  Dee, 
Sir  Charles  Toroon.     But  more  must  yet 

be  done. 

We  dare  to  put  the  case  on  public  grounds, 
Since  he  who  writes  so  nobly  is,  indeed, 
A  public  benefactor, — with  a  claim 
On  all  who  love  to  listen  and  to  look, 
When  the  fresh  Saxon  Muse,  in  homespun 

gear, 
The  free  breeze  blowing  back  her  loosen'd 

hair, 
Wanders    barefooted    through    the   dewy 

lanes 


And  sings  aloud,  till  all  the  valleys  ring 
For  pleasure,  and  the  echoes  of  the  hills 
Make  sweet  accord  ! ' 

— Conservative  Review. 


II. 
AFTER  TEN  YEARS. 

A  homely  matron,  who  has  once  been  fair, 

In  quiet  suffering  old,  yet  young  in  years  ; 
Soft  threads  of  silver  in  her  auburn  hair, 

And  lines  around  the  eyes  that  tell  of  tears  ; 
But  on  her  face  there  trembles  peaceful  light, 
That  seems  a  smile,  and  yet  is  far  less  bright, — 
To  tell  of  watchings  in  the  shade  and  sun, 
And  melancholy  duty  sweetly  done. 

What,  take  away  my  Teddy?  shut  him  up 
Between  stone  walls,  as  if  he  was  a  thief? 
You  freeze  my  blood  to  talk  of  such  a  thing! 
Why,  these  green  fields  where  my  old  man 

was  born, 

The  river,  and  the  woodland,  and  the  lanes, 
Are  all  that  keep  him  living  :  he  was  ever 
O'er  fond  of  things  like  those  ;  and  now, 

you  see, 

Is  fonder  of  them  than  he  was  before, 
Because  he  thinks  so  little  else  is  left. 
Mad  ?  He 's  a  baby  !  Would  not  hurt  a 

fly! 

Can  manage  him  as  easy  as  our  girl ! 
And  though  he  was  a  poet  and  went  wrong, 
He  could  not  help  his  failings.     Ah,  True 

Heart, 

I  love  him  all  the  deeper  and  the  dearer  ! 
I  would  not  lose  him  for  the  whole  wide 

world ! 

It  came  through  working  lonely  in  the 

fields, 

And  growing  shy  of  cheerful  company, 
And  worrying  his  wits  with  idle  things 
He  saw  and  heard  when  quiet  out  o'  doors. 
For,  long  ere  we  were  wedded,  all  the  place 
Knew  Teddy's  ways  :  how  mad  he  was  for 

flowers 

And  singing  birds  ;  how  often  at  the  plough 
He  used  to  idle,  holding  up  his  head 
And  looking  at  the  clouds  ;  what  curious 

stuff 

He  used  to  say  about  the  ways  of  things  ; 
How  week-days  he  was  never  company, 
Nor  tidy  on  a  Sunday.     Even  then 
Folk  call'd  him  stupid  :  so  did  I  myself, 


T38 


LONDON  POEMS. 


liehts. 


At  first,  before  his  sheepishness  wore  off ; 
And  then,  why  I  was  frighten'd  for  a  time 
To  find  how  wondrous  brightly  he  could  look 
And  talk,  when  with  a  girl,  and  no  one  by. 
Right  soon  he  stole  this  heart  of  mine  away, 
So  cunningly  I  scarcely  guess'd  'twas  gone, 
But  found  my  tongue  at  work  before  I  knew, 
Sounding  his  praises.     Mother  shook  her 

head; 

But  soon  it  was  the  common  country  talk 
That  he  and  I  were  courting. 

After  that 

Some  of  his  sayings  and  his  doings  still 
Seem'd  foolish,  but  I  used  to  laugh  and  say, 
'  Wait  till  we  marry  !     I  shall  make  him 

change ! ' 

And  it  was  pleasant  walking  after  dark, 
In  summer,  wandering  up  and  down  the 

lanes, 
And  heark'ning  to  his  talk  ;  and  pleasant, 

too, 

In  winter,  to  sit  cuddling  by  the  fire, 
And  whispering  to  the  quiet  firelight  sound 
And  the  slow  ticking  of  the  clock.    Ere  long, 
I  grew  to  care  for  many  things  he  loved. 
He  knew  the  names  of  trees,  and  birds,  and 

flowers, 
Their  races  and  their  seasons  ;  named  the 

stars, 
Their  comings  and  their  goings  ;  and  could 

tell 
Strange  truths  about  the  manners  of  the 

clouds. 

Set  him  before  a  hedgerow  in  a  lane, 
And  he  was  happy  all  alone  for  hours. 
The  woods  and  fields  were  full  of  joy  to  him, 
And  wonders,  and  fine  meanings  ever  new. 
How,  at  the  bottom  of  the  wayside  well, 
The  foul  toad  lies  and  purifies  the  drink  ; 
How  twice  a  year  red  robin  sings  a  song, 
Once  when  the  orchis  blows  its  bells  in 

spring, 
Once    when    the  gold  is  on  the    slanted 

sheaves ; 

How  late  at  night  the  common  nightingale 
Comes  in  the  season  of  the  barley-sowing, 
Silently  builds  her  nest  among  the  boughs, 
And  then  sings  o\:t  just  as  the  roses  blow, 
And  it  is  sweet  and  pleasant  in  the  moon. 
Why,  half  his  courtship  lay  in  talk  like  that, 
And,  oh  !  the  way  he  talk'd  fill'd  high  my 

heart 


With  pleasure.  Then,  o'  quiet  winter  nights, 
With  vvild  bright  eyes  and  voice  that  broke 

for  joy, 

He  often  read  aloud  from  books  of  songs  ; 
One  I  remember,  that  I  liked  the  best, 
A  book  of  pictures  and  of  love-tales,  call'd 
'The  Seasons.'     I  was  young,  and  did  net 

think  • 

I  only  felt  'twas  fine.     Yet  now  and  then 
I  noticed  more,  and  took  a  sober  fit, 
And  tried  to  make  him  tidy  in  his  clothes, 
And  could  not,  though  I  tried  ;  and  used  to 

sigh 
When  mother  mutter'd  hints,  as  mothers 

will, 
That  he  should  work  more  hard  and  look 

ahead, 

And  save  to  furnish  out  a  house  for  me. .  . . 
For  Teddy  smiled,   poor  lad,  and  worU'd 

more  hard, 
But  save  .  .  .  not  he  !      Instead  of  laying 

by, 

Making  a  nest  to  rear  the  young  ones  in, 
He  spent  his   hard-won    cash    in  buying 

books, — 
Much  dusty  lumber,  torn  and  black  and 

old, 
Long  sheets  of   ballads,   bundles  of   old 

rhyme, — 
And  read  them,  one  by  one,  at  home  o' 

nights, 

Or  out  aloud  to  me,  or  at  the  plough. 
I  chid  at  first,  but  quickly  held  my  tongue, 
Because  he  look'd  so  grieved  ;  and  once  he 

said 
With   broken   voice  and  dew-light  in  his 

eyes, 

'  Lass,  I  'm  a  puzzle  to  myself  and  you, 
But  take  away  the  books,  and   I  should 

die!' 
His  back  went  bare  for  books,  his  stomach 

starved 
To  buy  them,— nay,  he  pawn'd  his  jacket 

once, 

To  get  a  dreary  string  of  solemn  stuff 
Ail  about  Eve  and  Adam.     More  and  more 
He  slacken' d  at  his  toil ;  and  soon  the  lad, 
Who  turn'd  the  cleanest  furrow,  when  he 

pleased, 
Of  all  the  ploughmen,    let  his  work  go 

spoil, 

And  fairly  led  an  idle  thriftless  life 
In  the  green  woods  and  on  the  river  side. 


EDWARD    CROWHURST. 


139 


And  then  I  found  that  he  himself  made 

verse 
In    secret, — verse    about    the    birds    and 

flowers, 

Songs  about  lovers,  rhymes  about  the  stars, 
Tales  of  queer  doings  in  the  village  here,  — 
All  writ  on  scraps  of  paper  out-o'-doors, 
And  hidden  in  an  old  tin  coffee-pot 
Where  he  had  kept  his  cash.     The  first  I 

heard 

Was  just  a  song  all  about  him  and  me, 
And  cuddling  in  the  kitchen  while  'twas 

snowing  ; 

He  read  it  to  me,  blushing  like  a  girl, 
And    I  was    pleased,    and    laugh'd,    and 

thought  it  fine, 
And  wonder'd  where  he  learn'd  to  make  the 

words 

Jingle  so  sweetly.     Then  he  read  me  more, 
Some  that  I  liked,  some  that  I  fancied  poor; 
And,  last  of  all,  one  morn  in  harvest-time, 
When  all  the  men  were  working  in  the 

fields, 

And  he  was  nearly  ragged,  out  it  came — 
'  They  're  reaping  corn,  and  corn  brings 

gold,  my  lass ; 

But  I  will  reap  gold,  too,  and  fame  beside, — 
I  'm  going  to  print  a  Book  ! ' 

I  thought  him  mad  ! 
The  words  seem'd  dreadful — such  a  fool 

was  I ; 

And  I  was  puzzled  more  when  he  explain'd: 
That  he  had  sent  some  verses  by  the  post 
To  a  rich  man  who  lived  by  selling  songs 
Yonder  in  London  city  ;  that  for  months 
No  answer  came,  and  Teddy  strain' d  his 

eyes 

Into  the  clouds  for  comfort ;  that  at  last 
There  came  a  letter  full  of  wondrous  praise 
From  the  great  man  in  London,  offering 
Poor  Teddy,  if  he  sent  him  verse  enough 
To  make  a  pretty  little  printed  book, 
To  value  it  in  money.     Till  I  die, 
I  "11  ne'er  forget  the  light  on  Teddy's  face — 
The  light,  the  glory,  and  the  wonder  there  : 
He  laugh'd,  and  read  the  letter  out  aloud, 
He  leapt  and  laugh'd  and  kiss'd  me  o'er  and 

o'er, 

And  then  he  read  the  letter  o'er  again, 
And  then  turn'd  pale,  and  sank  into  a  chair, 
And  hid  his  bright  face  in  his  hands,  and 

cried. 


Bewilder'd  though  I  was,  my  heart  was 

glad 

To  see  his  happy  looks,  and  pleased  beside 
That  fine  folk  call'd  him  clever.     I  said 

nought 

To  mother — for  I  knew  her  ways  too  well — 
But  waited.      Soon  came  other  wondrous 

news : 

The  scraps  of  verse  had  all  been  copied  out 
On  fine  white  sheets,  written  in  Teddy's 

hand, 
Big,  round,  and  clear,  like  print ;  and  word 

had  come 
That  they  were  read  and  praised  by  other 

folk, 

Friends  of  the  man  in  London.    Last  of  all, 
One  night,  when  I  was  ironing  the  clothes, 
And  mother  knitting  sat  beside  the  fire, 
In  Teddy  came — as  bright  and  fresh  and 

gay 

As  a  cock  starling  hopping  from  the  nest 

On  May-day  ;  and  with  laughing  eyes  he 
cried, 

'Well,  mother,  when  are  Bess  and  I  to 
wed?' 

'  Wed  ? '  mother  snapt,  as  sour  as  butter- 
milk, 

'  Wed  ?  when  the  birds  swim,  and  the  fishes 

fly. 

And  the  green  trees  grow  bread  and  cheese 

and  butter 

For  lazy  loons  that  lie  beneath  and  yawn  ! ' 
Then  Teddy  laugh'd  aloud,  and  when  I 

frown'd 
And  shook  my  head  to  warn  him,  laugh'd 

the  more  ; 
And,  drawing  out  his  leathern  ploughman's 

pouch, 
1  See,  mother,  see  ! '  he  cried, — and  in  her 

lap 
Pour'd  thirty  golden  guineas  ! 

At  the  first, 
I  scream'd,  and  mother  look'd  afraid  to 

touch 
The  glittering  gold, — and  plain  enough  she 

said 
The  gold,  she  guess'd,  was  scarcely  honest 

gain  ; 

Then  Teddy  told  her  all  about  his  book, 
And  how  those  golden  guineas  were  the 

price 
The  great  rich  man  in  London  put  upon  't. 


140 


LONDON  POEMS. 


She  shook  her  head  the  more  ;  and  when 

he  read 
The  great  man's  letter,  with  its  words  of 

praise, 

Look'd  puzzled  most  of  all;  and  in  a  dream, 
Feeling  the  gold  with  her  thin  hand,  she 

sat, 
While  Teddy,  proud  dew  sparkling  in  his 

eyes, 

Show'd  me  in  print  the  little  song  he  made 
Of  cuddling  in  the  kitchen    while    'twas 

snowing, — 
•And,  Bess,'  he  cried,  '  the  gold  will  stock 

a  house, 

But  little  'tis  I  care  about  the  gold : 
This  bit  of  printed  verse  is  sweeter  far 
Than    all  the  shining  wealth  of   all   the 

world  ! ' 

And  lifted  up  the  paper  to  his  mouth 
And  kiss'd  the  print,  then  held  it  out  at 

length 

To  look  upon 't  with  sparkling,  happy  eyes, 
And  folded  it  and  put  it  in  his  pouch, 
As  tenderly  and  carefully,  I  swear, 
As  if  it  were  a  note  upon  a  bank 
For  wealth  untold.     Why  linger  o'er  the 

tale?— 
Though  now  my  poor  old  man  is  weak  and 

ill, 

Sweet  is  the  telling  of  his  happy  time. 
The  money  stock'd  a  house,  and  in  a  month 
We  two  were  man  and  wife. 

Teddy  was  proud 

And  happy,— busy  finishing  the  book 
That  was  his  heart's  delight ;  and  as  for 

me, 
My    thoughts  were  merry  as    a   running 

brook, 

For  Teddy  seem'd  a  wise  man  after  all ; 
And  it  was  spring-time,  and  our  little  home 
Was  hung  with  white  clematis,  porch  and 

wall, 
And  wall-flower,    candituft,   and    London 

pride, 

All  shining  round  a  lilac  bush  in  bloom, 
Sweeten'd  the  little  square  of  garden  ground; 
And  cozy  as  a  finch's  mossy  nest 
Was  all  within  ;  the  little  sleeping-room 
And  red-tiled  kitchen  ;  and,  made  snug  and 

fine 

By  chairs  and  tables  cut  of  bran-new  deal, 
The  little  parlour, — on  the  mantel-piece 


Field-flowers  and  ferns  and  bird's-egg  neck- 
laces, 

Two  pretty  pictures  pasted  on  the  walls, 
(The  portraits  of  one  Milton  and  one  Burns,^ 
And,  in  the  corner  Teddy  loved  the  best, 
Three  shelves  to  keep  the  old,  black,  thumb- 
mark'd  books. 

And  if  my  heart  had  fever,  lest  the  life 
Begun  so  well  was  over-bright  to  last, 
Teddy  could  cheer  me  ;  for  he  placed  his 

arm 

Around  me,  looking  serious  in  his  joy, 
When  we  were  wed  three  days  ;  and  '  Bess,' 

he  said, 

1  The  Lord  above  is  very  kind  to  me  ; 
For  He  has  given  me  this  sweet  place  and 

you, 

Adding  the  bliss  of  seeing  soon  in  print 
The  verse  I  love  so  much.1     Then,   kissing 

me, 

'  I  have  been  thinking  of  it  all,'  he  said, 
'  Holpen  a  bit  by  lives  of  other  folk, 
Which  I  have  read.     Now,  many  men  like 

me 

Grow  light  o'  head  and  let  their  labour  go  ; 
But  men  can't  live  by  writing  verses,  Bess.' 
'  Nay,  nay, '  cried  I,  '  'twere  pity  if  they 

could, 

For  every  man  would  try  the  easier  task, 
And  who  would  reap  the  fields  or  grind  the 

corn  ? ' 

And  Teddy  smiling,  said,  '  'Tis  so  !  'tis  so  ! 
Pride  shall  not  puff  my  wits,  but  all  the  dav 
I  will  toil  happily  in  the  fields  I  love  ; 
And  in  the  pleasant  evenings  'twill  be  fine 
To  wander  forth  and  see  the  world  with  you, 
Or  read  out  poems  in  the  parlour  here, 
Or  take  a  pen  and  write,  for  ease  o'  heart, 
Not  praise,  not  money.'     I  was  glad  ten- 
fold,— 

Put  all  my  fears  aside,  and  trusted  him, — 
And  well  he  kept  his  word. 

Yet  ill  at  ease, 

Restless  and  eager,  Teddy  waited  on, 
Until  the  night  a  monster  parcel  came 
From  London  :  twelve  brown  volumes,  all 

the  same, 
Wide-printed,   thin,  and  on  the  foremost 

page, 

'  Poems  by  Edward  Crowhurst,  Labourer.1 
The  happiest  hour  my  Teddy  ever  knew  i 


EDWARD   CROWHURST. 


141 


He  turn'd  the  volumes  o'er,  examined  each, 
Counted  the  sheets,    counted  the  printed 

lines, 

Stared  at  his  name  in  print,  held  out  the  page 
At  arm's  length,  feasting  with  his  mouth  and 

eyes. 

I  wonder'd  at  his  joy,  yet,  spite  o'  me, 
I  shared  it.     'Twas  so  catching.     The  old 

tale! 

A  little  thing  could  make  my  Teddy's  heart 
Gay  as  a  bunch  of  roses,  while  a  great 
Went  by  unheeded  like  a  cannon-ball. 
The  glowworm  is  a  little  common  grub, 
Yet  what  a  pretty  gleam  it  often  sheds  ; 
And  that  same  poor,  small,  common-looking 

book, 

Set  on  our  table,  kept  around  its  leaves 
A  light  like  sunshine. 

When  his  joy  grew  cool, 
Teddy  took  up  a  book  to  read  it  through  ; 
And  first  he  show'd  me,  next  the  foremost 

page, 

A  bit  of  writing  called  the  '  Author's  Life,' 
Made  up  of  simple  things  my  man  had  told — 
How  he  was  but  a  lowly  labourer, 
And  how  the  green  fields  work'd  upon  his 

heart 

To  write  about  the  pretty  things  he  saw — 
All  put  together  by  a  clever  man 
In  London.     For  a  time  he  sat  and  read 
In  silence,  looking  happy  with  his  eyes  ; 
But  suddenly  he  started  up  and  groan'd, 
Looking  as  black  as  bog-mud,  while  he  flung 
The  book  upon  the  table  ;  and  I  gript 
His  arm,  and  ask'd  what  ail'd  him.    '  Bess,' 

he  said, 

'  The  joy  o'  this  has  all  gone  sudden  sour, 
All  through  the  cruel  meddling  of  a  fool : 
The  story  of  my  life  is  true  enough, 
Despite  the  fine-flown  things  the  teller  sticks 
Around  it — peacock's  feathers  stuck  around 
The  nest  of  some  plain  song-bird ;  but  the 

end 

Is  like  the  garlic  flower, — looks  fine  at  first, 
But  stinks  on  peeping  nearer.    Bess,  my  lass, 
I  never  begg'd  a  penny  in  my  life, 
I  sought  the  help  of  no  man,  but  could  work, 
What  then?  what  then?    O  Bess,  'tis  hard, 

'tis  hard ! 

They  make  me  go  a-begging,  book  in  hand, 
As  if  I  were  a  gipsy  of  the  lanes 
Whistling  for  coppers  at  an  alehouse  door  ! ' 


I,  too,  was  hurt,  but  tried  to  comfort  him ; 
'Twas  kindly  meant,  at  least,  I  thought  and 

said  ; 
But  Teddy  clench'd  his  teeth,  and  sat  him 

down, 

And  wrote,  not  rudely,  but  as  if  in  grief, 
To  him  in  London.     Till  the  answer  came, 
The  printed  poems  cheer'd  him,  though  the 

book 
Had  lost  a  scent  that  ne'er  would  come 

again  ; 
And  when  the  answer  came,  'twas  like  the 

words 

A  mother  murmurs  to  a  silly  child — 
A  smiling,  pitying,  quiet  kind  of  tone, 
That  made  him  angrier  than  violent  speech  ; 
And  at  the  end  a  melancholy  hint 
About  ingratitude.     Teddy  must  trust 
In  those  who  had  his  fortune  most  at  heart, 
Nor  rashly  turn  his  friends  to  enemies, 
Nor  meddle  with  the  kindly  schemes  of  those 
Who  knew  the  great  world  better  far  than 

he. 

Oh,  Teddy's  eyes  were  dim  with  bitter  dew  ! 
'  Begging  is  begging,  and  I  never  begg'd  ! 
Shame  on  me  if  I  ever  take  their  gold  ! ' 
I  coax'd  him  to  be  silent  ;  and  though  soon 
The  bitter  mood  wore  off,  his  gladness  lost 
The  look  of  happy  pride  it  wore  of  old. 

'Twas  happy,  happy,  in  the  little  home, 
And  summer  round  about  on  wood  and  field, 
And  summer  on  the  bit  of  garden  ground. 
But  soon  came  news,  like  whiffs  of  colour'd 

smoke, 

Blown  to  us  thickly  on  the  idle  wind, 
And  smelling  of  the  city.     For  the  land 
Was  crying  Teddy's  praises  !     Every  morn 
Came  papers  full  of  things  about  the  Book, 
And  letters  full  of  cheer  from  distant  folk  ; 
And  Teddy  toil'd  away,  and  tried  his  best 
To  keep  his  glad  heart  humble.     Then,  one 

day, 

A  smirking  gentleman,  with  inky  thumbs, 
Call'd,  chatted,  pried  with  little  fox's  eyes 
This  way  and  that,  and  when  he  went  away 
He  wrote  a  heap  of  lying  scribble,  styled 
'A  Summer  Morning  with  the  Labourer 

Bard  ! ' 
Then   others    came :    some,    mild    young 

gentlemen, 
Who  chirp'd,  and  blush'd,  and  simper' d, 

and  were  gone  ; 


142 


LONDON  POEMS. 


Some,  sallow  ladies  wearing  spectacles, 
And  pale  young  misses,  rolling  languid  eyes, 
And  pecking  at  the  words  my  Teddy  spake 
Like  sparrows  picking  seed  ;  and,  once  or 

twice, 

Plump  merry  gentlemen  who  talk'd  no  stuff, 
But  chatted  sensibly  of  common  things, 
And  made  us  feel  at  home.     Ay,  not  a  day 
But  Teddy  must  be  sent  for,  from  the  fields, 
To  meet  with  fine-clad  strangers  from  afar. 
The  village  folk  began  to  open  eyes 
And  wonder,  but  were  only  more  afraid 
Of  Teddy,  gave  him  hard  suspicious  looks, 
And  shunn'd  him  out-o'-doors.     Yet  how 

they  throng"  d, 

Buzzing  like  humble  bees  at  swarming  time, 
That  morn  the  oil'd  and  scented  gentleman 
(For  such  we  thought  him)  brought  a  little 

note 

From  Lord  Fitztalbot  of  Fitztalbot  Tower, 
Yonder  across  the  moorland.     'Twas  a  line 
Bidding  my  Teddy  to  the  Tower,  and  he 
Who  brought  it  was  the  footman  of  my  lord. 
Well,  Teddy  went,  was  many  hours  away, 
And  then  return'd  with  cat's-claws  round 

his  lips. 

'  See  ! '  Teddy  cried,  and  flung  a  little  purse 
Of  money  in  my  lap  ;  and  I,  amazed, 
Counted  ten  golden  guineas  in  my  palm, 
Then  gazed  at  Teddy,  saw  how  pale  he  was, 
And  ask'd  what  ail'd  him.    '  'Tis  the  money, 

lass,' 
He  answer'd,  groaning  deep.     '  He  talk'd, 

and  seem'd 
Right  kindly  ;  ask'd  about  my  home,  and 

you  ; 
Spoke  of  the  poems,   smiled,   and  bow'd 

farewell ; 

And,  dropping  that  same  money  in  my  hat, 
Bade  me  go  dine  below.     I  burn'd  like  fire, 
Felt  choking,  yet  was  fearful  to  offend, 
And  took  the  money,  as  I  might  have  took 
A  blazing  cinder,  bow'd,  and  came  away. 
O  Lord !   O  Lord  !    this  comes  of  yonder 

loon, 
Who  sent  the  book  a-begging  ! '    Then  he 

talk'd— 
How    fiercely  and  how  wildly,    clenching 

hands : 

'  Was  not  a  poet  better  than  a  lord  ? 
Why  should  the  cruel  people  use  him  so? 
Why  would  the  world  not  leave  his  home 

in  peace  ? ' 


And  last,  he  vow'd  to  send  the  money  back 
But  I,  though  shamed  and  troubled,  thought 

him  wrong, 
And  vow'd  my  lord  was  kind,  and  meant 

us  well, 

And  won  him  o'er  at  last  to  keep  the  purse. 
And  ah  !  we  found  it  useful  very  soon, 
When  I  lay  in,  and  had  a  dreadful  time, 
And  brought  our  girl.     Then  Teddy  put 

aside    , 

All  grief  and  anger  ;  thought  of  us  alone  ; 
Forgot,  or  nearly,  all  the  praise  and  blame 
Of  loveless  strangers  ;  and  was  proud  and 

glad, 
Making  fond  rhymes  about  the  babe  and  me. 

Ah  !  had  the  folk  but  let  my  man  alone, 
All  would  be  happy  now.     He  loved  his 

work, 

Because  it  kept  him  in  the  fields  ;  he  loved 
The  babe  and  me  ;  and  all  he  needed  more, 
To  keep  his  heart  content,  was  pen  and  ink, 
And  now  and  then  a  book.  And  as  for 

praise, 

He  needed  it  no  more  than  singing  birds  ; 
And  as  for  money,  why,  he  wanted  none  ; 
And  as  for  prying  strangers  in  the  house, 
They  brought  a  clumsy  painful  sense  of  pride 
That  made  him  restless.     He  was  ever  shy 
Of  company — he  loved  to  dream  alone — 
And  the  poor  life  that  he  had  known  so  long 
Was  just  the  kind  of  life  he  suited  best. 
He  look'd  a  fine  straight  man  in  homespun 

gear, 
But  ne'er  seem'd  easy  in  his  Sunday  coat. 

What  should  his  fine  friends  do  at  last, 

but  write, 

Bidding  my  man  to  London, — there  to  meet 
A  flock  o*  gentlefolk,  who  spent  the?r  days 
In  making  books  !  -  Though  here  we  dwell 

so  near, 

That  northward,  far  away,  you  see  the  sky 
Black  with  the  smoky  breathing  of  the  city, 
We  ne'er  had  wander'd  far  away  from  home, 
Save  once  or  twice,  five  miles  to  westward 

yonder, 

To  Kersey  Fair.     Well,  Teddy  fix'd  to  go  ; 
And  seeing  him  full  bent,  I  held  my  tongue. 
And  off  he  set,  one  day,  in  Sunday  black, 
A  hazel  staff  over  his  shoulder  flung, 
His  bundle  swinging,— and  was  sped  by 

train 


EDWARD   CROWHURST. 


To  London  town.     Two  weeks  he  stay'd 

away  ; 
And,  when  he  came  from  London,  he  was 

changed. 
His  eyes  look'd  wild,  his  cheek  was  pale, 

his  step 

Unsteady  ;  when  he  enter'd,  I  could  smell 
Drink  in  his  breath.     Full  pain'd,  and  sick 

at  heart, 

I  question'd  him  ;  but  he  was  petulant, 
And  snapt  me  short ;  and  when  I  brought 

the  child, 
He  push'd  her  from  him.     Next  day,  when 

he  rose, 

His  face  was  pallid  ;  but  his  kindly  smile 
Came  back  upon  it.     Ere  the  day  was  out, 
He  told  me  of  his  doings,  of  the  men 
And  places  he  had  seen,  and  when,  and  how. 
He  had  been  dull  in  dwellings  of  the  rich, 
Had  felt  ashamed  in  great  grand  drawing- 
rooms, 

And  angry  that  the  kindly  people  smiled 
As  if  in  pity  ;  and  the  time,  he  said, 
Would  have  gone  drearily,  had  he  lack'd 

the  cheer 

He  chanced  to  find  among  some  jovial  folk 
Who  lived  by  making  books.  Full  plain  I 

saw 
That   something    had    gone    wrong.     His 

ways  were  strange, 

He  did  not  seem  contented  in  his  home, 
He  scarcely  glinted  at  the  poor  old  books 
He  loved  so  dearly.     In  a  little  time, 
Teddy  grew  more  himself,  at  home,  a-field, 
And   though,  from  that   day  forward,  he 

began 

To  take  a  glass  and  smoke  a  pipe  at  night, 
I  scarcely  noticed.  Thus  the  year  wore 

on  ; 

And  still  the  papers  praised  him  far  away, 
And  still  the  letters  came  from  distant  folk. 

And  Teddy  had  made  friends  :  folk  who 

could  talk 

About  the  things  he  loved,  and  flatter  him, 
Ay,  laugh  aloud  to  see  him  drink  his  glass, 
And  clap  his  back,  and  shake  him  by  the 

hand, 

How  wild  soe'er  he  talk'd.  For  by  degrees 
His  tongue  grew  freer,  he  was  more  at  ease 
With  strangers.  Oft  he  spent  the  evening 

hours 
With  merry-makers  in  the  public-house, 


And  totter' d  home  with    staring,  dazzled 

eyes. 

The  country  people  liked  him  better  now, 
And  loved  to  coax  him  out  to  drink  at 

night, 
And,  gaping,  heark'd  to  the  strange  things 

he  said. 
Ah,  then  my  fear  grew  heavy,  though  his 

heart 
Was  kindly  still,  his  head  still  clear  and 

wise, 
And  he  went  wastering  only  now  and  then. 

But  soon  his  ways  grew  better,  for  his 

time 

Was  spent  in  finishing  another  book. 
Yet  then   I  found  him  changed  in   other 

things  ; 

For  once  or  twice  when  money  as  before 
Was  sent  or  given  him,  he  only  laugh'd. 
And  took  it,  not  in  anger.  And,  be 

sure, 

Money  grew  needful  in  the  little  home — 
Another  babe  was  coming.  Babe  and 

book 

Were  born  together,  but  the  first  was  born 
Quiet  and  breathless.      'Twould    be  idle 

talk 
To  speak  about  the  book.     What  came  of 

that, 
Was  much  the  same  as  what  had  come 

before : 

The  papers  praised  it  over  all  the  land, 
But  just  a  shade  more  coolly  ;  strange  folk 

wrote, 

But  not  so  oft.     Yet  Teddy  was  in  glee, 
For  this  time  fifty  golden  guineas  came 
From  the  rich  man  in  London. 

Once  again, 
They  coax'd    him  up  to   London ;    once 

again, 
Home  came  he  changed, — with  wilder  words 

of  wit, 
And  sharper  sayings,  on  his  tongue.     He 

toil'd 

Even  less  than  ever  :  nay,  his  idle  friends, 
Who  loved  to  drain  the  bottle  at  his  side, 
Took  up  his  time  full  sorely.     We  began 
To  want  and  pinch  :  more  money  was  sub- 
scribed, 

And  taken  : — till  at  last  my  man  grew  sick 
Of  working  in  the  open  fields  at  all 


144 


LONDON  POEMS. 


And  just  as  work  grew  hardest  to  his 

mind, 
The   Lord   Fitztalbot   pass'd  him  on  the 

road, 
And  turn'd  his  head  away.     A  change  had 

come, 

As  dreadful  as  the  change  within  himself. 
The  papers  wrote  the  praise  of  newer  men, 
The  strange  folk  sent  him  letters  scarce  at 

all; 

And  when  he  spake  about  another  book, 
The  man  in  London  wrote  a  hasty  '  No  ! ' 
And  said  the  work  had  little  chance  to  sell. 
Those  words  were  like  a  sunstroke.     Wild 

and  scared, 
My    Teddy    stared    at    London — all    his 

dreams 
Came    back    upon    him — and  with  bitter 

tongue 
He  mock'd  and  threaten'd.     'Twas  of  no 

avail ! 
His  fine-day  friends  like  swallows  wing'd 

away, 

The  summer  being  o'er  ;  the  country  folk 
Began  to  knit  their  foreheads  as  of  old, 
Save    one  or  two  renown'd  as  ne'er-do- 
wells  ; 
And,  mad  with  pride,   bitten  with  shame 

and  fear, 
Teddy  drank  deeper  at  the  public-house. 

Teddy  to  blame?  Teddy  to  blame?  Ah, 

nay ! 
The  blame  be  theirs  who  broke  his  simple 

pride 

With  money,  beggar'd  him  against  his  will. 
The  blame  be  theirs  who  flatter'd  him  from 

home, 

And  led  him  out  to  make  his  humble  ways 
An  idle  show.     The  blame  be  theirs  who 

smiled 
Whene'er  he  play'd  a  wrong  and  foolish 

part, 

Because  he  had  skill  to  write  a  bit  of  verse. 
The  blame  be  theirs  who  spoil' d  him  like  a 

child, 
And,  when  the  newness  of  his  face  was 

gone, 

Turn'd  from  him  scornfully  and  smiled  else- 
where. 

Teddy  to  blame  ! — a  silly,  ignorant  man, 
Not  learn'd,  not  wise,  not  cunning  in  the 

world  ! 


But  hearken  how  I  changed  him  yet  out 

more, 
One  day  when  he  was  sick  and  ill  with 

pain. 

I  spake  of  all  our  early  courting  days, 
Full  low  and  tender,  of  the  happy  time 
When  I  brought  forth  our  girl,  and  of  the 

words 

He  spake  when  we  were  happy  ;  last  of  all, 
'  Teddy,'  I  said,  '  let  people  be  unkind, 
The  whole  world  hard,   you  cannot  heal 

your  pain 

Wastering,  idling  ;  think  of  merrier  days, 
Of  me,  and  of  our  girl,  and  drink  no  more.' 
He  gazed  at  me  full  long,  his  bosom  rose 
And  flutter'd,  and  he  held  my  hand  in  his, 
And  shivering,  moaning,  sank  into  a  chair ; 
And,  looking  at  the  bookshelf  at  his  side, 
And  at  the  common-looking  thumb-mark1  d 

books, 
He    promised,    promised,   with    his    poor 

cheeks  wet, 
And  his  voice  broken,  and  his  lips  set  firm. 

True  Heart,   he  kept   his  word.      The 

public-house 

Knew  him  no  longer  ;  in  the  fields  he  toil'd 
Lonely  once  more  ;  and  in  the  evenings 
Read  books  and  wrote, — and  all  he  wrote, 

I  know, 
Was  sad,  sad,  sad.     Bravely  he  work'd  all 

day, 

But  not  so  cheerfully.     And  no  man  cared 
To  brighten  him  with  goodly  words.     His 

face 
Was  stale  with  gentlefolk,   his  heart  too 

proud 
To  mix  with  coarse,  low  men.     Oft  in  the 

fields 

They  saw  him  turn  his  poor  eyes  London- 
wards, 

And  sigh  ;  but  he  was  silent  of  the  pain 
That  grew  upon  him.     Slowly  he  became 
The  sadden'd  picture  of  his  former  self : 
He    stood  at  ploughtail    looking    at    the 

clouds, 
He  watch' d  the  ways  of  birds  and  trees  and 

flowers  ; 
But  all  the  little    things  he  learn'd  and 

loved 

Had  ta'en  a  sadder  meaning.     Oftentimes, 
In  spite  of  all  he  did  to  hide  his  heart, 
I  saw  he  would  have  been  a  happy  man 


EDWARD   CROWHURST. 


'45 


If  any  one  had  praised  him  as  of  old  ; 
But  he  was  never  sent  for  from  the  fields, 
No  strangers  wrote  to  cheer  him,  and  he 

seem'd 

All,  all,  forgotten.     Still,  as  true  as  steel, 
He  held  his  promise  to  our  girl  and  me, 
Though  oft,  I  know,  the  dreadful  longing 

came 
To  fly  to  drink  for  comfort.     Then,  one 

night, 

I  heard  a  stirring  in  the  dark  :  our  girl 
Crept  close  to  me,  and  whisper'd  in  mine 

ear — 
'  Hark !  father's  crying  ! ' 

O  'tis  terrible 
To  hear  a  strong  man  weep  !     I  could  not 

bear 
To  find  him  grieving  so,  but  crept  unto 

him, 

And  put  my  arms  about  him,  on  his  neck 
Weeping,  '  O  Teddy,  Teddy,  do  not  so  1 
Cheer  up,  for  you  will  kill  me  if  you  cry. 
What  do  you  long  for?    Why  are  you  so 

sad?' 
And  I  could  feel  him  crush  his  hot  tears 

down, 
And  shake  through  every  limb.     '  O  lass  ! ' 

he  cried, 

I 1  cannot  give  a  name  to  what  I  want ; 
I  cannot  tell  you  why  I  grow  so  sad  ; 
But  I  have  lost  the  pleasure  and  the  peace 
The  verses  brought  me.     I  am  sick  and 

changed, — 

I  think  too  much  of  other  men, — I  seem 
Despised  and  useless.  If  I  did  not  feel 
You  loved  me  so,  and  were  so  kind  and 

true, 

When  all  the  world  is  cruel,  I  should  fall 
And  wither.      All    my  strength    is    gone 

away, 
And  I  am  broken  ! ' 

'Twas  but  little  cheer 
That  I  could  give  him  :  that  was  grief  too 

deep 

For  foolish  me  to  understand  or  cure. 
I  made  the  little  parlour  bright  o'  nights, 
Coax'd  him  to  read  aloud  the  books  he 

loved, 

And  often  he  was  like  himself  again, 
Singing  for  ease  o'  heart ;   and  now  and 

then, 


A  poem  printed  in  a  newspaper, 

Or  something  kind  from  people    in    the 

world, 

Help'd  me  a  little.   So  the  time  wore  on  ; — 
Till  suddenly,  one  night  in  winter  time, 
I  saw  him  change.     Home  came  he  white 

and  pale, 
Shivering,    trembling,    looking    wild    and 

strange, 
Yet    speaking    quietly.      '  My  head    feels 

queer — 

It  aches  a  bit ! '  he  said  ;  and  the  next  day 
He  could  not  rise  from  bed.     Quiet  he 

lay, 
But  now  and  then  I   saw  him  raise  his 

hand 

And  hold  his  forehead.     In  the  afternoon, 
He  fell  to  troubled  sleep,  and,  when  he 

woke, 
He  did  not  seem  to  know  me.      Full  of 

fear, 
I  sent  for  Doctor  Barth.     When  Doctor 

came, 

He  found  poor  Teddy  tossing  on  his  bed, 
Moaning    and    muttering    and    clenching 

teeth, 

And  Doctor  said,  '  The  ill  is  on  the  brain — 
Has  he  been  troubled  lately  ? '  and  I  cried, 
'  Ay,  much,  much  troubled  !  He  has  fretted 

sore 
For  many  months  ! ' 

'Twas  sad,  'twas  sad,  to  see 
My  strong  man  suffer  on  his  dull  sick-bed, 
Not  knowing  me,  but  crying  out  of  things 
That  haunted  him.     I  will  not  weary  you, 
By  telling  how  the  Doctor  brought  him 

round, 
And  how  at  last  he  rose  from  bed,  the 

ghost 

Of  his  old  self,  and  something  gone  away 
That  never  would  return.     Then  it  was 

plain 
That  he  could  work  no  more  :  the  Light 

had  fled, 
Which  keeps  a  man  a  man  despite  the 

world 

And  all  its  cruel  change.   To  fright  the  wolf, 
I  took  in  washing  at  the  cottage  here  ; 
And  people  sent  us  money  now  and  then, 
And  pitying  letters  reach'd  us  from  the 

world, 
Too  late  !  too  late  1 


146 


LONDON  POEMS. 


Thank  the  good  God  above, 
Who  made  me  strong  and  willing,  I  could 

keep 
The  little  house  above  us,    though  'twas 

dear, 
And  ah !   I  work'd  more  hard  because  I 

knew 
Poor  Teddy's  heart  would  break  outright 

elsewhere. 

Yet  Teddy  hardly  seem'd  to  comprehend 
All  that  had  happen'd.     Though  he  knew 

me  well, 

And  spake  full  sensibly  of  many  things, 
He  lack'd  the  power  to  speak  of  one  thing 

long. 

Sometimes  he  was  as  merry  as  a  bird, 
Singing  wild  songs  he  learn'd  by  heart  when 

young  ; 
Sometimes  he  wish'd   to  wander  out    a- 

field, 

But  easy  'twas  to  lead  his  wits  away 
To  other  things.     And  he  was  changeful 

ever, 
Now  laughing  and  now  crying  ;   and  at 

times 
He  wrote  strange  notes  to  poets  that  were 

dead, 
And  named  himself  by  all  their  names  in 

turn, 
Still  making  verse,  which  I  had  sense  to 

see 
Was  wild,  and  strange,  and  wrong — not 

like  the  verse 
He  made  of  old.     One  day  for  hours  he 

sat, 

Looking  upon  the  bit  of  garden  ground, 
And  smiling.     When  I  spoke,  he  look'd 

and  laugh' d. 

'  Surely  you    know  me,   Teddy  ? '    I    ex- 
claim'd  ; 
And  up  he  raised  his  head,  with  shrill  thin 

voice 

Saying,  '  Yes,  you  are  Queen  Elizabeth, 
And  I  am  Shakespeare  ; '   and  again  he 

smiled 

Craftily  to  himself ;  but  when  I  hung 
Around    his  neck,   and   wept,   and  ask'd 

again, 
He    turn'd    upon    me    with    so    pale    a 

look, 

So  wan,  so  sharp,  so  full  of  agony, 
'Twas    clear    the    cloud  was  lifted  for  a 

moment, 


'Twas  clear  he  knew  that  he  was  T 

Crowhurst, 
And  that  the  light  of  life  had  gone  away 


r 


And  oft,  in  sunny  weather,  he  and  I 
Had  walks  in  quiet  places, — in  the  lanes, 
And  in  the  woods,  and  by  the  river  side  ; 
And  he  was  happy,  prying  as  of  old 
In  little  mossy  nests,  or  plucking  flowers, 
Or  dropping  pebbles  at  the  water-brim, 
To  make  the  speckled  minnows  start  and 

fly 
In  little  gleams  of  light.     Ne'er  had  he 

been 
More  cunning  in  the  ways  and  looks  of 

things, 
Though  memory  fail'd  him  when  he  tried 

for  names. 

The  sable  streaks  upon  the  arum-flower 
Were  strange  to  him  as  ever ;  a  lark  singing 
Made  his  eyes  misty  as  it  used  to  do  ; 
The    shining  sun,   the   waving    of   green 

boughs, 

The  rippling  of  the  river  down  the  dell, 
Were  still  true  pleasure.     All  the  seasons 

brought 
Something  to  charm  him.     Staring  on  the 

snow, 

Or  making  great  snow-houses  like  a  boy, 
He  was   as  busy  when  the  boughs  were 

bare, 

As  carrying  home  a  bough  of  scented  May 
Or  bunch  of  yellow  lilies  from  the  pond. 
What  had  been  pleasure  in   his  younger 

days 

Came  back  to  keep  him  quiet  in  the  world. 
He  gave  much  love  to  trees  and  birds  and 

flowers, 

And,  when  the  mighty  world  was  all  unkind, 
The  little,  gentle,   speechless  things  were 

true. 


True  Heart,  I  never  thought  that  he  could 

bear 
To  last  so  long ;  but  ten  slow  years  have 

fled 
Since  the  first  book  that  brought  the  trouble 

and  pain 

Was  printed,— and  within  the  parlour  there 
Teddy  is  sitting,  busy  as  a  bee. 
Doing  ?     He  dreams  the  world  that  knows 

him  not 


EDWARD   CROWHURST— ARTIST  AND   MODEL. 


Rings  with  his  praises,  and  for  many  an 

hour 

Sits  busy  with  the  verse  of  later  years, 
Marks,  copies,  and  arranges  it  with  care, 
To  go  to  some  great  printer  that  he  thinks 
Is  waiting  ;  and  from  time  to  time  he  eyes 
The  books  they   printed,   numbering  the 

lines, 
Counting    the  pages.      Sometimes    he    is 

Burns, 
Sometimes  John  Milton,  sometimes  other 

men, 
And  sometimes — always    looking    saddest 

then- 
Knows  he  is  Teddy  Crowhurst.   Thin  he  is, 
And    worn,    and    feeble, — wearing    slowly 

down 

Like  snowdrift;  and  at  times,  when  Memory 
Comes  for  a  moment  like  a  mirror  flash' d 
Into  his  eyes,  he  does  not  groan  and  weep, 
But  droops  the  more,  and  seems  resign'd 

and  still. 

True  Heart,  I  fear  the  end  is  near  at  last ! 
He  sits  and  hearkens  vacantly  and  dreams, 
He  thrills  at  every  knocking  at  the  door, 
Stilly  he  waits  for  light  that  never  comes, 
That  never  will  return  until  the  end. 
And  oft    at    evening,   when  my  work  is 

done, 
And  the  dark  gathers,  and  he  holds  my 

hand, 

The  waiting  grows  intenser,  and  becomes 
The     sense    o'   life  itself.      Take    Teddy 

hence  ! 
Show   me  the  man  will    draw    my  hand 

away  ! 

I  am  a  quiet  comfort  to  his  pain  ; 
For  though  his  thoughts  be  far  away  from 

here, 
I  know  he  feels  my  hand ;  and  ah  !  the 

touch 
Just  keeps  his  heart  from  breaking.     'Tis 

my  joy 
To  work  where  I  can  watch  him  through  the 

day, 
And    quiet   him,    and   see   he   wants   for 

nought. 
He    loves  to   sit  among    his    books    and 

flowers, 

And  wears  away  with  little  pain,  and  feels 
The  quiet  parlour  is  a  pleasant  place  ; 
And  there — God  bless  him  ! — in  a  happy 

time 


Teddy  will  feel  the  darkness  pass  away, 
And  smile  farewell  upon  his  wife  and  girl, 
And  Light  that  he  has  lost  will  come  again 
To  shine  upon  him  as  he  goes  to  sleep. 


ARTIST  AND  MODEL: 

A   LOVE   POEM. 

The  scorn  of  the  nations  is  bitter, 
But  the  touch  of  a  hand  is  warm. 

Is  it  not  pleasant  to  wander 

In  town  on  Saturday  night, 
While  people  go  hither  and  thither, 

And  shops  shed  cheerful  light? 
And,  arm  in  arm,  while  our  shadows 

Chase  us  along  the  panes, 
Are  we  not  quite  as  cozy 

As  down  among  country  lanes? 

Nobody  knows  us,  heeds  us, 

Nobody  hears  or  sees, 
And  the  shop-lights  gleam  more  gladly 

Than  the  moon  on  hedges  and  trees  ; 
And  people  coming  and  going, 

All  upon  ends  of  their  own, 
Though  they  work  a  spell  on  the  spirit, 

Make  it  more  finely  alone. 

The  sound  seems  harmless  and  pleasant 

As  the  murmur  of  brook  and  wind  ; 
The  shops  with  the  fruit  and  the  pictures 

Have  sweetness  to  suit  my  mind  ; 
And  nobody  knows  us,  heeds  us, 

And  our  loving  none  reproves, — 
/,  the  poor  figure-painter  ! 

You,  the  lady  he  loves  ! 

And  what  if  the  world  should  scorn  you 

For  now  and  again,  as  you  do, 
Assuming  a  country  kirtle, 

And  bonnet  of  straw  thereto, 
Or  the  robe  of  a  vestal  virgin, 

Or  a  nun's  gray  gabardine, 
And  keeping  a  brother  and  sister 

By  standing  and  looking  divine  ? 

And  what  if  the  world,  moreover, 

Should  silently  pass  me  by, 
Because  at  the  dawn  of  the  struggle, 

I  labour  some  stories  high  ! 

La 


148 


LONDON  POEMS. 


Why,  there 's  comfort  in  waiting,  working, 
And  feeling  one's  heart  beat  right, — 

And  rambling  alone,  love-making, 
In  London  on  Saturday  night. 

For  when,  with  a  blush  Titianic, 

You  peep'd  in  that  lodging  of  mine, 
Did  I  not  praise  the  good  angels 

For  sending  a  model  so  fine? 
When  I  was  fill'd  with  the  pureness 

You  brought  to  the  lonely  abode, 
Did  I  not  learn  to  love  you? 

And — did  Love  not  lighten  the  load  ? 


And  haply,  indeed,  little  darling, 

While  I  ycarn'd  and  plotted  and  plann'd, 
And  you  watch'd  me  in  love  and  in  yearning 

Your  heart  did  not  quite  understand 
All  the  wonder  and  aspiration 

You  meant  by  your  loveliness, 
All  the  faith  in  the  frantic  endeavour 

Your  beautiful  face  could  express ! 


For  your  love  and  your  beauty  have  thriven 

On  things  of  a  low  degree, 
And  you  do  not  comprehend  clearly 

The  drift  of  a  dreamer  like  me  ; 
And  perchance,  when  you  look'd  so  divinely, 

You  meant,  and  meant  only,  to  say  : 
1  How  sad  that  he  dwells  in  a  garret ! 

And  lives  on  so  little  a  day  ! ' 

What  of  that?      If   your  sweetness  and 
beauty, 

And  the  love  that  is  part  of  thee, 
Were  mirror'd  in  wilder  visions, 

And  express' d  much  more  to  me, 
Did  the  beautiful  face,  my  darling, 

Need  subtler,  loftier  lore  ? — 
Nay,  beauty  is  all  our  wisdom, — 

We  painters  demand  no  more. 

Indeed,  I  had  been  no  painter, 

And  never  could  hope  to  rise, 
Had  I  lack'd  the  power  of  creating 

The  meanings  for  your  sweet  eyes ; 
And  what  you  were  really  thinking 

Scarcely  imported,  in  sooth, — 
Since  the  truth  we  artists  fail  for, 

Is  the  truth  that  looks  the  truth. 


Your  beautiful  face  was  before  me, 

Set  in  its  golden  hair  ; 
And  the  wonder  and  love  and  yearning 

Were  shining  sublimely  there  ! 
And  your  eyes  said — '  Work  for  glory  ! 

Up,  up,  where  the  angels  call ! ' 
And  I  understood,  and  I  labour' d, 

And  I  love  the  face  for  it  all ! 

I  am  talking,  you  think,  so  strangely  ! 

And  you  watch  with  wondering  eyes  ! 
Could  I  utter  one  half  of  the  yearning 

Your  face,  even  now,  implies  ! 
But  the  yearning  will  not  be  utter'd, 

And  never,  ah  !  never  can  be, 
Till  the  work  of  the  world  is  over, 

And  we  see  as  immortals  see. 

Yet  bless  thee  for  ever  and  ever, 

For  keeping  me  humble  and  true, 
And  would  that  my  Art  could  utter 

The  wisdom  I  find  in  you. 
Enough  to  labour  and  labour, 

And  to  feel  one's  heart  beat  right, 
And  to  wander  unknown,  love-making, 

In  London  on  Saturday  night ! 

You  think  :  '  How  dearly  I  love  him  ! 

How  dearly  he  loves  me  1 
How  sweet  to  live  on,  and  love  him, 

With  children  at  my  knee  ! 
With  the  useless  labour  over, 

And  comfort  and  leisure  won, 
And  clever  people  praising 

The  work  that  he  has  done  ! ' 

I  think  :  '  How  dearly  I  love  her  ! 

How  dearly  she  loves  me  ! 
Yet  the  beauty  the  heart  would  utter 

Endeth  in  agony  ; 
And  life  is  a  climbing,  a  seeking 

Of  something  we  never  can  see  ! 
And  death  is  a  slumber,  a  dreaming 

Of  something  that  may  not  be ! ' 

And  your  face  is  sweetly  troubled, 

Your  little  hand  stirs  on  mine  own, 
For  you  guess  at  a  hidden  meaning, 

Since  I  speak  in  so  tender  a  tone  ; 
And  you  rain  the  yearning  upon  me 

You  brought  to  my  help  before, 
And  I  ask  no  mightier  wisdom, — 

We  painters  demand  no  more. 


ARTIST  AND    MODEL— NELL. 


149 


And  we  shall  live,  my  darling, 

Together  till  we  grow  old, 
And  people  will  buy  my  pictures, 

And  you  will  gather  the  gold, 
And  your  loveliness  will  reward  me, 

And  sanctify  all  I  do, 
And  toiling  for  Love's  sake,  darling, 

I  may  toil  for  Fame's  sake,  too. 

Ah,  dearest,  how  much  you  teach  me, 

How  much  of  hope  and  of  light, 
Up  yonder,  planning  and  painting, 

And  here  on  Saturday  night ; 
And  I  turn  sad  eyes  no  longer 

From  the  pageant  that  passes  around, 
And  the  vision  no  more  seems  weary, 

And  the  head  may  yet  be  crown 'd  ! 

And  I  ask  no  more  from  mortals 

Than  your  beautiful  face  implies, — 
The  beauty  the  artist  beholding 

Interprets  and  sanctifies. 
Who  says  that  men  have  fallen, 

That  life  is  wretched  and  rough  ? 
I  say,  the  world  is  lovely, 

And  that  loveliness  is  enough. 

So  my  doubting  days  are  ended, 

And  the  labour  of  life  seems  clear  ; 
And  life  hums  deeply  around  me, 

Just  like  the  murmur  here, 
And  quickens  the  sense  of  living, 

And  shapes  me  for  peace  and  storm, — 
And  dims  my  eyes  with  gladness 

When  it  glides  into  colour  and  form  ! 

His  form  and  His  colour,  darling, 

Are  all  we  apprehend, 
Though  the  meaning  that  underlies  them 

May  be  utter'd  in  the  end  ; 
And  I  seek  to  go  no  deeper 

Than  the  beauty  and  wonder  there, 
Since  the  world  can  look  so  wondrous, 

And  your  face  can  look  so  fair. 

For  ah  !  life's  stream  is  bitter, 

When  too  greedily  we  drink, 
And  I  might  not  be  so  happy 

If  I  knew  quite  all  you  think  ; 
And  when  God  takes  much,  my  darling, 

He  leaves  us  the  colour  and  form, — 
The  scorn  of  the  nations  is  bitter, 

But  the  touch  of  a  hand  is  warm. 


NELL. 

She  gazes  not  at  her  who  hears, 

But,  while  the  gathering  darkness  cries, 
Stares  at  the  vacancy  through  tears, 

That  burn  upon  her  glistening  eyes, 
Yet  do  not  flow.     Her  hair  falls  free 

Around  a  face  grown  deathly  thin  ; 
Her  elbow  rests  upon  her  knee, 

And  in  her  palms  she  props  her  chin. 

SEE,  Nan  !  his  little  face  looks  pinch'd  with 

fright, 

His  little  hands  are  clench'd  together  tight ! 
Born-  dead,  that's  comfort !  quiet  too  ;  when 

one 
Thinks  of  what  kill'd  him !    Kiss  him, 

Nan,  for  me. 

Thank  God,  he  never  look  d  upon  the  sun 
That  saw  his  father  hang'd  on  gallows- 
tree. 
O  boy,   my  boy !   you're  better  dead  and 

sleeping, 
Kill'd  by  poor  mothers  fear,  and  shame, 

and  weeping  : 
She  never  loved  another  living  man, 

But  held  to   father  all  thro'  right  and 

wrong — 

Ah,  yes  !  I  never  turn'd  against  him,  Nan, 
I  stuck  by  him  that  stuck  by  me  so  long  ! 

You're  a  kind  woman,  Nan  !  ay,  kind  and 

true  ! 

God  will  be  good  to  faithful  folk  like  you  ! 
You  knew  my  Ned  ? 

A  better,  kinder  lad  never  drew  breath  — 

We  loved  each  other  true,  though  never  wed 

In  church,  like  some  who  took  him  to  his 

death  : 
A  lad  as  gentle  as  a  lamb,  but  lost 

His  senses  when   he   took  a  drop  too 

much — 
Drink  did  it  all — drink  made  him  mad  when 

cross'd — 
He  was  a  poor  man,  and  they're  hard  on 

such. 
O  Nan !  that  night !  that  night  ! 

When  I  was  sitting  in  this  very  chair, 
Watching  and  waiting  in  the  candle-light, 
And  heard  his  foot  come  creaking  up  the 

stair, 

And  turn'd,  and  saw  him  standing  yonder t 
white 


LONDON  POEMS 


And  wild,  with  staring  eyes  and  rumpled 

hair! 
And  when  I  caught  his  arm  and  call'd,  in 

fright, 
He  push'd  me,  swore,  and  to  the  door  he 


To  lock  and  bar  it  fast ! 
Then  down  he  drops  just  like  a  lump  of 

lead, 
Holding  his  brow,  shaking,  and  growing 

whiter, 
And — Nan  !— just  then  the  light  seem'd 

growing  brighter, 
And  I  could  see  the  hands  that  held  his 

head, 

All  red  !  all  bloody  red ! 
What  could  I  do  but  scream  ?    He  groan'd 

to  hear, 
Jump'd  to  his  feet,  and  gripp'd  me  by  the 

wrist ; 

'  Be  still,  or  I  shall  kill  thee,  Nell ! '  he  hiss'd. 
And  I  was  still,  for  fear. 
'  They're  after  me — I've  knifed  a  man  ! '  he 

said. 
'  Be  still ! — the  drink — drink  did  it — he  is 

dead!' 

And  as  he  said  the  word,  the  wind  went  by 
With  a  whistle  and  cry — 
The  room  swam  round — the  babe  unborn 

seem'd  to  scream  out,  and  die ! 

Then  we  grew  still,  dead  still.    I  couldn't 

weep — 

All  I  could  do  was  cling  to  Ned  and  heark— 
And  Ned  was  cold,  cold,  cold,  as  if  asleep, 
But  breathing  hard  and  deep. 
The  candle  flicker'd  out— the  room  grew 

dark— 
And— Nan !— although  my  heart  was  true 

and  tried, — 

When  all  grew  cold  and  dim, 
I  shudder' d — not  for  fear  of  them  outside, 

But  just  afraid  to  be  alone  with  him. 
For   winds    were    wailing— the  wild    rain 

cried, — 
Folk's  footsteps  sounded  down  the  court 

and  died — 
What  could  I  do  but  clasp  his  knees  and 

cling? 
And  call  his  name  beneath  my  breath  in 

pain? 

Until  he  threw  his  head  up,  listening, 
And  gave  a  groan,  and  hid  his  face  again  ; 


1  Ned  !  Ned  ! '  I  whisper' d — and  he  moan'd 

and  shook — 

But  did  not  heed  or  look  ! 
1  Ned  !  Ned  !  speak,  lad  !  tell  me  it  is  not 

true  !' 
At  that  he  raised  his  head  and  look'd  so 

wild; 
Then,  with  a  stare  that  froze  my  blood,  he 

threw 

His  arms  around  me,  crying  like  a  child, 
And  held  me  close — and  not  a  word  was 

spoken — 
While  I  clung  tighter  to  his  heart  and 

press' d  him — 
And  did  not  fear  him,  though  my  heart  was 

broken — 

But  kiss'd  his  poor  stain'd  hands,  and 
cried,  and  bless' d  him  ! 

Then,  Nan,  the  dreadful  daylight,  coming 

cold 

With  sound  o'  falling  rain, — 
When  I  could  see  his  face,  and  it  look'd 

old, 
Like  the  pinch'd  face  of  one  that  dies  in 

pain  ; 
Well,  though  we  heard  folk  stirring  in  the 

sun, 

We  never  thought  to  hide  away  or  run, 
Until  we  heard  those  voices  in  the  street, 
That  hurrying  of  feet. 
And  Ned  leap'd  up,  and  knew  that  they 

had  come. 
1  Run,  Ned ! '  I  cried,  but  he  was  deaf 

and  dumb ! 
'  Hide,  Ned ! '  I  scream' d,  and  held  him — 

'  hide  thee,  man  ! ' 
He    stared    with    bloodshot     eyes,    and 

hearken'd,  Nan ! 
And  all  the  rest  is  like  a  dream — the  sound 

Of  knocking  at  the  door — 
A  rush  of  men — a  struggle  on  the  ground — 

A  mist— a  tramp— a  roar  ; 
For  when  I  got  my  senses  back  again, 
The  room  was  empty — and  my  head  went 

round ! 
The  neighbours  talk'd  and  stirr'd  about  the 

lane, 

And  Seven  Dials  made  a  moaning  sound  ; 
And  as  I  listen'd,  lass,  it  seem'd  to  me 
Just  like  the  murmur  of  the  great  dark  Sea, 
And  Ned  a-lying  somewhere,  stiff  and 
drown' d  1 


NELL, 


God  help  him  ?    God  -will  help  him  !     Ay, 

no  fear ! 
It  was  the  drink,  not  Ned — he  meant  no 

wrong  ; 

So  kind  !  so  good  ! — and  I  am  useless  here, 
Now  he  is  lost  that  loved  me  true  and 

long. 

Why,  just  before  the  last  of  it.we  parted, 
And  Ned  was  calm,  though  I  was  broken- 
hearted ; 
And  ah,  my  heart  was  broke  !  and  ah,  I 

cried 
And  kiss'd  him, — till  they  took  me  from  his 

side; 
And  though  he  died  that  way,  (God  bless 

him  !)  Ned 
Went  through  it  bravely,  calm  as  any 

there  : 
They've  wrought  their  fill  of  spite  upon  his 

head, 
And — there's  the  hat  and  clothes  he  used 

to  wear ! 

.  .  .  That  night  before  he  died, 

I  didn't  cry — my  heart  was  hard  and  dried  ; 

But  when  the  clocks  went  '  one,'  I  took  my 

shawl 

To  cover  up  my  face,  and  stole  away, 
And  walk'd  along  the  silent  streets,  where  all 

Look'd  cold  and  still  and  gray, — 
Only  the  lamps  o'  London  here  and  there 

Scatter'd  a  dismal  gleaming  ; 
And  on   I  went,  and  stood  in   Leicester 

Square, 

Ay,  like  a  woman  dreaming  : 
But  just  as  '  three '  was  sounded  close  at 

hand, 

I  started  and  turn'd  east,  before  I  knew, — 
Then  down  Saint  Martin's  Lane,  along  the 

Strand, 

And  through  the  toll-gate,  on  to  Water- 
loo. 
How  I  remember  all  I  saw,  although 

'Twas  only  like  a  dream  ! — 
The  long  still   lines  o'  lights,  the  chilly 

gleam 
Of  moonshine  on  the  deep  black  stream 

below ; 
While  far,  far,  far  away,  along  the  sky 

Streaks  soft  as  silver  ran, 
And  the  pale  Moon  look'd  paler  up   on 

high, 
And  little  sounds  in  far-off  streets  began  ! 


Well,  while  I  stood,  and  waited,  and  look'd 

down, 
And  thought  how  sweet  'twould  be  to  drop 

and  drown, 
Some  men  and  lads  went  by, 
And  turning  round,  I  gazed,  and  watch'd 

'em  go, 

Then  felt  that  they  were  going  to  see  him  die, 
And  drew  my  shawl  more  tight,  and  fol- 

low'd  slow. 

How  clear  I  feel  it  still ! 
The  streets   grew  light,  but  rain  began  to 

fall; 
I  stopp'd  and  had  some  coffee  at  a  stall, 

Because  I  felt  so  chill ; 
A  cock  crew  somewhere,  and  it  seem'd  a 

call 

To  wake  the  folk  who  kill ! 
The  man  who  sold  the  coffee  stared  at 

me ! 

I  must  have  been  a  sorry  sight  to  see  ! 
More  people  pass'd — a  country  cart  with 

hay 
Stopp'd  close  beside  the  stall, — and  two  or 

three 

Talk'd  about  it!    I  moan'd,  and  crept 
away ! 

Ay,  nearer,  nearer  to  the  dreadful  place, 

All  in  the  falling  rain, 
I  went,  and  kept  my  shawl  upon  my  face, 

And  felt  no  grief  or  pain — 
Only  the  wet  that  soak'd  me  through  and 

through 
Seem'd  cold  and  sweet  and  pleasant  to 

the  touch — 
It  made  the  streets  more  drear  and  silent, 

too, 

And  kept  away  the  light  I  fear'd  so  much. 
Slow,  slow  the  wet  streets  fill'd,  and  all 

seem'd  going, 

Laughing  and  chatting,  the  same  way, 
And  grayer,  sadder,  lighter,  it  was  grow- 
ing, 

Though  still  the  rain  fell  fast  and  dark- 
en'd  day  ! 
Nan  ! — every  pulse  was  burning — I  could 

feel 

My  heart  was  made  o'  steel — 
As    crossing    Ludgate    Hill,    I    saw,    all 

blurr'd, 

Saint  Paul's  great  clock  and    heard  it 
slowly  chime, 


152 


LONDON  POEMS. 


And  hadn't  power  to  count  the  strokes  I 

heard, 
But  strain'd  my  eyes  and  saw  it  wasn't 

time. 
Ah  !  then  I  felt  I  dared  not  creep  more 

near, 

But  went  into  a  lane  off  Ludgate  Hill, 
And  sitting  on  a  doorstep,  I  could  hear 

The  people  gathering  still ! 
And  still  the  rain  was  falling,  falling, 
And  deadening  the  hum  I  heard  from 

there  ; 

And  wet  and  stiff,  I  heard  the  people  call- 
ing, 
And  watch'd    the   rain-drops  glistening 

down  my  hair, 

My  elbows  on  my  knees,  my  fingers  dead,— 
My  shawl  thrown  off,  now  none  could  see,— 

my  head 

Dripping  and  wild  and  bare. 
I  heard  the  crying  of  a  crowd  of  men, 

And  next,  a  hollow  sound  I  knew  full  well, 
For  something  gripp'd  me  round  the  heart ! 

— and  then 

There  came  the  solemn  tolling  of  a  bell ! 
O  God  !  O  God  !  how  could  I  sit  close  by, 
And  neither  scream  nor  cry  ? 
As  if  I  had  been  stone,  all  hard  and  cold, 

I  listen'd,  listen  d,  listen'd,  still  and  dumb, 
While  the  folk  murmur 'd,  and  the  death- 
bell  toll'd, 
And  the  day  brighten'd,  and  his  time  had 

come.  .  .  . 
.  .  .  Till— Nan !— all  else  was  silent,  but 

the  knell 
Of  the  slow  bell ! 

And  I  could  only  wait,  and  wait,  and  wait, 

And  what  I  waited  for  I  couldn't  tell, — 

At  last  there  came  a  groaning  deep  and 

great — 

Saint  Paul's  struck  '  eight ' — 
I  scream' d,  and  seem'd  to  turn  to  fire, 
and  fell ! 

God  bless  him,  live  or  dead  ! 
Oh,  he  was  kind  and  true — 
They've  wrought  their  fill  of  spite  upon  his 

head — 
Why  didn't  they  be  kind,  and  take  me 

too? 
And  there's  the  dear  old  things  he  used  to 

wear, 
And  here's  a  lock  o"  hair  ! 


And  Ned  !  my  Ned  ! 
Is    fast    asleep,    and    cannot    hear    me 

call;— 
God  bless  you,  Nan,  for  all  you've  done 

and  said, 

But  don't  mind  me  I    My  heart  is  broke, 
that's  all ! 


ATTORNEY  SNEAK. 

Sharp  like  a  tyrant,  timid  like  a  slave, 
A  little  man,  with  yellow,  bloodless  cheek  ; 

A  snappish  mingling  of  the  fool  and  knave, 
Resulting  in  the  hybrid  compound— Sneak. 

PUT  execution  in  on  Mrs.  Hart — 

If  people  will  be  careless,  let  them  smart  : 

Oh,  hang  her  children!  just  the  common 

cry  ! 

Am  I  to  feed  her  family  ?    Not  I. 
I'm  tender-hearted,  but  I  dare  be  just,— 
I  never  go  beyond  the  law,  I  trust  ; 
I've  work'd  my  way,  plotted  and  starved 

and  plann'd, 

Commenced  without  a  penny  in  my  hand, 
And  never  howl'd  for  help,   or  dealt  in 

sham — 
No  !    I  'm  a  man  of  principle,  I  am. 

What's  that  you  say?    Oh,  father  has 

been  here  ? 
Of  course,  you  sent  him  packing?    Dear, 

oh,  dear ! 
When  one  has  work'd  his  weary  way,  like 

me, 

To  comfort  and  respectability, 
Can  pay  his  bills,  and  save  a  pound  or 

two, 

And  say  his  prayers  on  Sunday  in  a  pew, 
Can  look  the  laws  of  England  in  the  face, 
'Tis  hard,  'tis  hard,  'tis  shame,  and  'tis  dis- 
grace, 
That  one's  own  father — old  and  worn  and 

gray- 
Should  be  the  only  hindrance  in  his  way. 
Swore,  did  he?    Very  pretty  !    Threaten'd? 

Oh! 
Demanded  money?    You,  of  course,  said 

'No'? 

'Tis  hard — my  life  will  never  be  secure — 
He'll  be  my  ruin  some  day,  I  am  sure. 


ATTORNEY  SNEAK. 


I  don't  deny  my  origin  was  low — 
All  the  more  credit  to  myself,  you  know  : 
Mother  (I  never  saw  her)  was  a  tramp, 
Father  half  tramp,  half  pedlar,  and  whole 

scamp, 

Who  travell'd  over  England  with  a  pack, 
And  carried  me  about  upon  his  back, 
Trudging  from  door  to  door,  to  feasts  and 

fairs, 

Cheating  the  silly  women  with  his  wares, 
Stealing  the  farmers'  ducks  and  hens  for 

food, 

Pilfering  odds  and  ends  where'er  he  could, 
And  resting  in  a  city  now  and  then, 
Till  it  became  too  hot, — and  off  again. 
Beat  me  ?    No,  he  knew  better.     I  confess 
He  used  me  with  a  sort  of  tenderness  ; 
But  would  have  warp'd  my  nature  into  sin, 
Had  I  been  weak,  for  lack  of  discipline. 
Why,  even  now,  I  shudder  to  the  soul, 
To  think  how  oft  I  ate  the  food  he  stole, 
And  how  I  wore  upon  my  back  the  things 
He  won  by  cheats  and  lawless  bargainings. 
Oh,  he  had  feelings,  that  I  freely  say  ; 
But,  without  principle,  what  good  are  they? 
He  swindled  and  he  stole  on  every  hand, 
And  I  was  far  too  young  to  reprimand  ; 
And,  for  the  rest,  why,  he  was  circumspect, 
And  might  have  been  committed  for  neg- 
lect. 

Ah  !  how  I  managed,  under  stars  so  ill, 
To  thrive  at  all,  to  me  is  mystery  still. 
In  spite  of  father,  though,  I  got  along, 
And  early  learn'd  to  judge  the  right  from 

wrong ; 
At  roadsides,  when  we  stopp'd  to  rest  and 

feed, 

He  gave  me  lessons  how  to  write  and  read, 
I  got  a  snack  of  schooling  here  and  there, 
And  learn'd  to  sum  by  instinct,  as  it  were. 
Then,  latterly,  when  I  was  seventeen, 
All  sorts  of  evil  I  had  heard  and  seen  ; 
Knew  father's  evil  ways,  bemoan'd  my  fate, 
Long'd  to  be  wealthy,  virtuous,  and  great ; 
Swore,  with  the  fond  ambition  of  a  lad, 
To  make  good  use  of  what  poor  gifts  I  had. 

At  last,  tired,  sick,  of  wandering  up  and 

down, 

Hither  I  turn'd  my  thoughts, — to  London 
town ; 


And  finally,  with  little  doubt  or  fear, 
Made  up  my  mind  to  try  my  fortune  here. 
Well,  father  stared  at  first,  and  shook  his 

head; 

But  when  he  found  I  held  to  what  I  said, 
He  clasp' d  me  tight,  and  hugg'd  me  to  his 

heart, 
And  begg'd  and  pray'd  tha    I  would  not 

depart ; 

Said  I  was  all  for  whom  he  had  to  care, 
His  only  joy  in  trudging  here  and  there ; 
Vow'd,  if  I  ever  left  him,  he  would  die, — 
Then,  last  of  all,  of  course,  began  to  cry. 
You  know  how  men  of  his  position  feel  ? 
Selfish,  at  best,  even  when  it  is  real ! 
I  tried  to  smooth  him  over,  and,  next  day, 
I  pack'd  what  things  I  had,  and  ran  away. 

I  need  not  tell  you  all  my  weary  fight, 
To  get  along  in  life,  and  do  aright — 
How  often  people,  when  I  sought  a  place, 
Still  push'd  my  blessed  father  in  my  face  ; 
Until,  at  last,  when  I  was  almost  stark, 
Old  Lawyer  Hawk  made  me  his  under- 

clerk ; 

How  from  that  moment,  by  avoiding  wrong, 
Possessing  principle,  I  got  along  ; 
Read  for  the  law,  plotted,   and  dream'd, 

and  plann'd, 
Until — I  reach' d  the  height  on  which   I 

stand. 

'Twas  hard,   'twas  hard  !    Just  as  my 

business  grows, 

In  father  pops  his  miserable  nose, 
Steps  in,  not  sober,  in  a  ragged  dress, 
And  worn  tenfold  with  want  and  wicked- 
ness ; 
Calls  me  hard  names  because  I  wish'd  to 

rise  ; 

Here,  in  the  office,  like  a  baby  cries  ; 
Smothers  my  pride  with  shame  and  with 

disgrace, 

Till,  red  as  fire,  I  coax'd  him  from  the  place. 
What  could  I  do  under  so  great  a  blow  ? 
I  gave  him  money,  tried  to  make  him  go  ; 
But  ah  !  he  meant  to  rest,  I  plain  could  see, 
His  ragged  legs  'neath  my  mahogany  ! 
No  principle  !    When  I  began  complaining, 
How  he  would  be  my  ruin  by  remaining, 
He  turn'd  upon  me,  white  and  wild,  and 

swore, 
And  would  have  hit  me,  had  I  utter'd  more" 


154 


LONDON  POEMS. 


'Tommy,'  he  dared  to  say,  'you've  done 

amiss  ; 

I  never  thought  to  see  you  come  to  this. 
I  would  have  stopp'd  you  early  on  the 

journey, 

If  I  had  ever  thought  you'd  grow  attorney, 
Sucking  the  blood  of  people  here  in  London ; 
But  you  have  done  it,  and  it  can't  be 

undone. 

And,  Tommy,  I  will  do  my  best  to  see 
You  don't  at  all  disgrace  yourself  and  me.' 

I  rack'd  my  brains,  I  moan'd  and  tore  my 

hair, 

Saw  nothing  left  but  ruin  and  despair  ; 
Father  at  hand,  why,  all  would  deem  me 

low: 
'Sneak's  father?   humph!'— the  business 

would  go. 
The  labour  of  long  years  would  come  to 

nought ! 

At  last  I  hit  upon  a  happy  thought : 
Why  should  not  father,  if  he  pleased  to  be, 
Be  decent  and  respectable  like  me  ; 
He  would  be  glad  and  grateful,  if  a  grain 
Of  principle  were  settled  in  his  brain. 
I  made  the  offer, — proud  he  seem'd  and 

glad.- 
There  rose  a  hope  he'd  change  to  good 

from  bad, 
Though,    '  Tommy,  'tis  a  way  of  getting 

bread 

I  never  thought  to  come  upon,'  he  said  ; 
And  so  I  placed  him  in  the  office  here, 
A  clerk  at  five  and  thirty  pounds  a  year. 

I  put  it  to  you,  could  a  man  do  more  ? 
I  felt  no  malice,  did  not  close  my  door, 
Gave  him  the  chance  to  show  if  he  was  wise : 
He  had  the  world  before  him,  and  could 
rise. 

Well,  for  a  month  or  more,  he  play'd  no 

tricks, 

Writ-drawing,  copying,  from  nine  to  six, 
Not  smart,  of  course,  or  clever,   like  the 

rest, 

But  trying,  it  appear'd,  to  do  his  best  ; 
But  by  and  by  he  changed — old  fire  broke 

out — 
He    snapp'd    when    seniors    order'd    him 

about— 


Came  late  to  office,  tried  to  loaf  and  shirk — 
Would  sit  for  precious  hours  before  his 

work, 

And  scarcely  lift  a  pen,  but  sleepily  stare 
Out  through  the  window  at  the  empty  air, 
And  watch  the  sunshine  lying  in  the  lane, 
Or  the  bluebottles  buzzing  on  the  pane, 
And  look  as  sad  and  worn  and  grieved  and 

strange 

As  if  he  ne'er  had  had  a  chance  to  change  ; 
Came  one  day  staggering  in  a  drunken  fit ; 
Flatly  refused  one  day  to  serve  a  writ. 
I    talk'd,   appeal'd,    talk'd  of   my  honest 

name, 
He  stared,  turn'd  pale,  swore  loud,  and  out 

it  came : 

He  hated  living  with  that  monkey  crew, 
Had  tried  his  best  and  found  it  would  not 

do; 
He  could  not  bear,  forsooth,  to  watch  the 

tears 

Of  people  with  the  Law  about  their  ears, 
Would  rather  steal  his  meals  from  place  to 

place, 
Than  bring  the  sorrow  to  a  poor  man's 

face- 
In  fact,  you  see,  he  hated  all  who  pay, 
Or  seek  their  moneys  in  the  honest  way  ; 
Moreover,  he  preferr'd  a  roadside  crust, 
To  cleanly  living  with  the  good  and  just : 
Old,  wild,  and  used  to  roaming  up  and 

down, 

He  could  not  bear  to  stagnate  in  a  town  ; 
To  stick  in  a  dark  office  in  a  street, 
Was  downright  misery  to  a  man  with  feet ; 
Serving  the  law  was  more  than  he  could 

bear, 
Give  him  his  pack,  his  freedom,  and  fresh 

air. 

Mark  that !  how  base,  ungrateful,  gross, 

and  bad ! 

His  want  of  principle  had  made  him  mad. 
I  gave  him  money,  sent  him  off  by  train, 
And  trusted  ne'er  to  see  his  face  again. 

But  he  came  back.     Of  course.     Look'd 

wan  and  ill, 

More  ragged  and  disreputable  still. 
Despairing,  groaning,  wretchedest  of  men, 
I  granted  him  another  trial  then. 
Still  the  old  story — the  same  vacant  stare 
Out  through  the  window  at  the  empty  air, 


ATTORNEY  SNEAK—  BARBARA    GRAY. 


155 


More  watching  of  the  sunshine  in  the  lane, 
And  the  bluebottles  buzzing  on  the  pane, 
Then  more  of  tipsiness  and  drunken  dizzi- 
ness, 

And  rage  at  things  done  in  the  way  of  busi- 
ness. 

I  saw  the  very  office  servants  sneer, 
And  I  determined  to  be  more  severe. 
At  last,  one  winter  morn,  I  went  to  him, 
And  found  him  sitting,  melancholy,  grim, 
Sprawling  like  any  schoolboy  on  his  seat, 
And    scratching    drawings  on  a  foolscap 

sheet : 

Here,  an  old  hag,  with  half-a-dozen  chits, 
Lash'd  with  a  cat-o'-nine-tails,  labell'd 

'  WRITS  ; ' 

There,  a  young  rascal,  ragged  as  a  daw, 
Drinking  a  cup  of  poison,  labell'd  '  LAW  ;' 
Elsewhere,  the  Devil,  looking  o'er  a  pile 
Of  old  indictments  with  a  crafty  smile, 
And  sticking  Lawyers  on  an  office  file  ! 
And  in  a  corner,  wretchedly  devised, 
A  shape  in  black,  that  kick'd  and  agonised, 
Strung  by  a  pauper  to  a  gallows  great, 
And    underneath    it    written,     'ToMMiE's 

FATE  ! ' 

I  touch'd  his  arm,  conducted  him  aside, 
Produced   a    bunch    of    documents,   and 

cried : 
'  Now,   father,  no  more  nonsense  !    You 

must  be 

No  more  a  plague  and  a  disgrace  to  me — 
If  you  won't  work  like  others,  you  must 

quit ; 

See,  here  are  two  subpoenas,  there  a  writ, 
Serve  these  on  Such-a-one  and  So-and-so. 
Be  sharp, — and  mind  your  conduct,  or  you 

go.' 

He  never  said  a  word,  but  with  a  glare 
All  round  him,  drew  his  thin  hand  through 

his  hair, 

Turn'd  white,  and  took  the  paper  silently, 
Put  on  his  hat,  and  peep'd  again  at  me. 
Then  quietly,  not  like  a  man  in  ire, 
Threw  all  the  precious  papers  on  the  fire  ! 
And  turning  quickly,  crying  with  a  shout, 
1  You,  and  your  documents,  be  damrid  I ' 
went  out. 

He  came  again  !    Ay,  after  wandering  o'er 
The  country  as  of  old,  he  came  once  more. 
I  gave  him  money,  off  he  went ;  and  then, 
After  a  little  year,  he  came  again  ; 


Ay,  came,  and  came,  still  ragged,  bad,  and 

poor, 

And  he  will  be  my  ruin,  I  am  sure. 
He  tells  the  same  old  tale  from  year  to  year, 
How  to  his  heart  I  ever  will  be  dear  ; 
Or  oft  into  a  fit  of  passion  flies, 
Calls    me    ungrateful    and    unkind,— then 

cries, 

Raves  of  his  tenderness  and  suffering, 
And  mother's  too and  all  that  sort  of 

thing  ! 

He  haunts  me  ever  like  a  goblin  grim, 
And — to  be  candid— I  'm  afraid  of  him  ; 
For,  ah  !  all  now  is  hopeless,  to  my  cost, — 
Through  want  of  principle  the  man  is  lost. 

— That 's  Badger,  is  it  ?    He  must  go  to 

Vere, 
The  Bank  of  England  clerk.     The  writ  is 

here. 

Say,  for  his  children's  sake,  we  may  relent, 
If  he  '11  renew  at  thirty-five  per  cent. 


BARBARA    GRAY. 

A  mourning  woman,  robed  in  black, 
Stands  in  the  twilight,  looking  back  ; 
Her  hand  is  on  her  heart,  her  head 
Bends  musingly  above  the  Dead, 
Her  face  is  plain,  and  pinch' d,  and  thin, 
But  splendour  strikes  it  from  within. 


' BARBARA  GRAY ! 

Pause,  and  remember  what  the  world  will 

say,' 

I  cried,  and  turning  on  the  threshold  fled, 
When  he  was  breathing  on  his  dying  bed  ; 

But  when,  with  heart  grown  bold, 

I  cross'd  the  threshold  cold, 
Here  lay  John  Hamerton,  and  he  was  dead. 


And  all  the  house  of  death  was  chill  and 

dim, 

The  dull  old  housekeeper  was  looking  grim, 
The  hall-clock  ticking  slow,  the  dismal  rain 
Splashing  by  fits  against  the  window-pane, 
The  garden  shivering  in  the  twilight  dark, 
Beyond,  the  bare  trees  of  the  empty  park, 
And  faint  gray  light  upon  the  great  cold 

bed, 
And  I  alone  ;  and  he  I  turn'd  from, — dead 


i56 


LONDON  POEMS. 


Ay,  '  dwarf  they  called  this  man  who  sleep- 
ing lies  ; 

No  lady  shone  upon  him  with  her  eyes, 
No  tender  maiden  heard  his  true-love  vow, 
And  pressed  her  kisses  on  the  great  bold 

brow. 
What  cared  John  Hamerton?    With  light, 

light  laugh, 
He  halted  through  the  streets   upon  his 

staff; 
Halt,  lame,  not  beauteous,  yet  with  winning 

grace 

And  sweetness  in  his  pale  and  quiet  face  ; 
Fire,    hell's  or    heaven's,    in    his   eyes   of 

blue; 
Warm  words  of   love    upon    his    tongue 

thereto  ; 
Could  win  a  woman's  Soul  with  what  he 

said, 
And  I  am  here  ;  and  here  he  lieth  dead. 


I  would  not  blush  if  the  bad  world  saw 

now 

How  by  his  bed  I  stoop  and  kiss  his  brow  ! 
Ay,  kiss  it,  kiss  it,  o'er  and  o'er  again, 
With  all  the  love  that  fills  my  heart  and 

brain. 

v. 
For  where  was  man  had  stoop'd  to  me 

before, 
Though  I  was  maiden  still,  and  girl  no 

more  ? 
Where  was  the  spirit  that  had  deign'd  to 

prize 
The  poor  plain  features  and  the  envious 

eyes? 
What  lips  had  whisper'd  warmly  in  mine 

ears? 
When  had  I  known  the  passion  and  the 

tears  ? 

Till  he  I  look  on  sleeping  came  unto  me, 
Found  me  among  the  shadows,  stoop'd  to 

woo  me, 
Seized  on  the  heart  that  flutter'd  withering 

here. 
Stung  it  and  wrung  it  with  new  joy  and 

fear, 
Yea,    brought    the    rapturous    light,   and 

brought  the  day, 
Waken' d  the  dead  heart,  withering  away, 


Put  thorns  and  roses  on  the  unhonour'd 

head, 

That  felt  but  roses  till  the  roses  fled  ! 
Who,   who,    but    he    crept    unto    sunless 

ground, 

Content  to  prize  the  faded  face  he  found? 
John  Hamerton,  I  pardon  all — sleep  sound, 

my  love,  sleep  sound  ! 


What  fool  that  crawls  shall  prate  of  shame 

and  sin  ? 

Did  he  not  think  me  fair  enough  to  win  ? 
Yea,  stoop  and  smile  upon  my  face  as  none, 
Living  or  dead,  save  he  alone,  had  done  ? 
Bring  the  bright  blush  unto  my  cheek,  when 

ne'er 

The  full  of  life  and  love  had  mantled  there? 
And  I  am  all  alone  ;  and  here  lies  he, — 
The  only  man  that  ever  smiled  on  me. 


Here,  in  his  lonely  dwelling-house  he  lies, 
The  light  all  faded  from  his  winsome  eyes  : 
Alone,  alone,  alone,  he  slumbers  here, 
With  wife  nor  little  child  to  shed  a  tear  ! 
Little,  indeed,  to  him  did  nature  give  ; 
Nor  was  he  good  and  pure  as  some  that 

live, 

But  pinch'd  in  body,  warp'd  in  limb, 
He  hated  the  bad  world  that  loved  not  him  ! 


Barbara  Gray  ! 

Pause,  and  remember  how  he  turn'd  away  ; 

Think  of  your  wrongs,  and  of  your  sorrows. 

Nay! 
Woman,   think  rather  of  the  shame  and 

wrong 

Of  pining  lonely  in  the  dark  so  long  ; 
Think  of  the  comfort  in  the  grief  he  brought. 
The  revelation  in  the  love  he  taught. 
Then,  Barbara  Gray ! 
Blush  not,  nor  heed  what  the  cold  world 

will  say  ; 

But  kiss  him,  kiss  him,  o'er  and  o'er  again, 
In  passion  and  in  pain, 
With  all  the  love  that  fills  your  heart  and 

brain  ! 
Yea,  kiss  him,  bless  him,  pray  beside  his 

bed, 
For  you  have  lived,  and  here  your  love  lies 

dead. 


THE  BLIND  LINNET- •<  TIGER   BAY: 


157 


THE  BLIND  LINNET. 


ei  jot'  bpa.i>, 

opooi/Ti  /u.TjSei'  riv  iSett/  y\vi<v  ; 
SOPH.  GEo.  TYR. 


THE  sempstress's  linnet  sings 
At  the  window  opposite  me  ; — 

It  feels  the  sun  on  its  wings, 
Though  it  cannot  see. 

Can  a  bird  have  thoughts  ?    May  be. 

II. 
The  sempstress  is  sitting, 

High  o'er  the  humming  street, 
The  little  blind  linnet  is  flitting 

Between  the  sun  and  her  seat. 
All  day  long 

She  stitches  wearily  there, 
And  I  know  she  is  not  young, 

And  I  know  she  is  not  fair  ; 
For  I  watch  her  head  bent  down 

Throughout  the  dreary  day, 
And  the  thin  meek  hair  o'  brown 

Is  threaded  with  silver  gray  ; 
And  now  and  then,  with  a  start 
At  the  fluttering  of  her  heart, 

She  lifts  her  eyes  to  the  bird, 
And  I  see  in  the  dreary  place 
The  gleam  of  a  thin  white  face. 

And  my  heart  is  stirr'd. 


Loud  and  long 

The  linnet  pipes  his  song  ! 

For  he  cannot  see 

The  smoky  street  all  round, 
But  loud  in  the  sun  sings  he, 

Though  he  hears  the  murmurous  sound ; 
For  his  poor,  blind  eyeballs  blink, 

While  the  yellow  sunlights  fall, 
And  he  thinks  (if  a  bird  can  think) 

He  hears  a  waterfall, 
Or  the  broad  and  beautiful  river 

Washing  fields  of  corn, 
Flowing  for  ever 

Through  the  woods  where  he  was  born; 
And  his  voice  grows  stronger, 

While  he  thinks  that  he  is  there, 
And  louder  and  longer 

Falls  his  song  on  the  dusky  air. 


And  oft,  in  the  gloaming  still, 
Perhaps  (for  who  can  tell?) 
The  musk  and  the  muskatel, 

That  grow  on  the  window  sill, 
Cheat  him  with  their  smell. 


IV. 

But  the  sempstress  can  see 

How  dark  things  be  ; 

How  black  through  the  town 

The  stream  is  flowing  ; 
And  tears  fall  down 

Upon  her  sewing. 
So  at  times  she  tries, 

When  her  trouble  is  stirr'd 
To  close  her  eyes, 

And  be  blind  like  the  bird. 
And  then,  for  a  minute, 

As  sweet  things  seem, 
As  to  the  linnet 

Piping  in  his  dream  ! 
For  she  feels  on  her  brow 

The  sunlight  glowing, 
And  hears  nought  now 

But  a  river  flowing — 
A  broad  and  beautiful  river, 

Washing  fields  of  corn, 
Flowing  for  ever 

Through    the  woods    where  she  was 

born — 

And  a  wild  bird  winging 
Over  her  head,  and  singing  ! 
And  she  can  smell 
The  musk  and  the  muskatel 

That  beside  her  grow, 
And,  unaware, 
She  murmurs  an  old  air 

That  she  used  to  know ! 


'TIGER  BAY: 
A  STORMY  NIGHT'S  DREAM. 

i. 
THE  TIGRESS. 

A  DREAM  I  had  in  the  dead  of  night : 
Darkness — the    Jungle— a    black     Man 

sleeping — 
Head  on  his  arm,  with  the  moon-dew 

creeping 
Over  his  face  in  a  silvern  light : 


158 


LONDON  POEMS. 


The  Moon  was  driving,  the  Wind  was  cry- 
ing ; 
Two  great  lights  gleam' d,  round,  horrid, 

and  red, 

Two  great  eyes,  steadfast  beside  the  bed 
Where  the  man  was  lying. 

Hark  !  hark  ! 

What  wild  things  cry  in  the  dark? 
Only  the  Wind  as  it  raves, 
Only  the  Beasts  in  their  caves, 
Where  the  Jungle  waves. 

The  man  slept  on,  and  his  face  was  bright, 
Tender  and  strange,   for  the  man  was 

dreaming— 

Coldly  the  light  on  his  limbs  was  gleam- 
ing, 
On  his  jet-black  limbs  and  their  folds  of 

white  ; — 

Leprous-spotted,  and  gaunt,  and  hated, 
With  teeth  protruding  and  hideous  head, 
Her  two  eyes  burning  so  still,  so  red, 
The  Tigress  waited. 

Hark !  hark  ! 

The  wild  things  cry  in  the  dark  ; 
The  Wind  whistles  and  raves, 
The  Beasts  groan  in  their  caves, 
And  the  Jungle  waves. 

From  cloud  to  cloud  the  cold  Moon  crept, 
The  silver  light  kept  coming  and  going — 
The  Jungle  under  was  bleakly  blowing, 
The  Tigress  watch'd,  and  the  black  Man 

slept. 
The  Wind  was  wailing,    the    Moon   was 

gleaming  : 
He  stirr'd  and  shiver'd,  then  raised  his 

head  :— 

Like  a  thunderbolt  the  Tigress  sped, 
And  the  Man  fell  screaming — 

Hark  !  hark ! 

The  wild  things  cry  in  the  dark  ; 
The  wild  Wind  whistles  and  raves, 
The  Beasts  groan  in  their  caves, 
And  the  Jungle  waves. 

II. 

'  RATCLIFFE  MEG. 

Then  methought  I  saw  another  sight : 
Darkness — a  Garret — a  rushlight  dying — 
On  the  broken-down  bed  a  Sailor  lying, 

Sleeping  fast,  in  the  feeble  light  ;— 


The  Wind  is  wailing,  the  Rain  is  weeping  • 
She  croucheth  there  in  the  chamber  dim, 
She  croucheth  there  with  her  e)  L:S  on  him 
As  he  lieth  sleeping — 
Hark  !  hark ! 

Who  cries  outside  in  the  dark  ? 
Only  the  Wind  on  its  way, 
Only  the  wild  gusts  astray, 
In  Tiger  Bay. 

Still  as  a  child  the  Sailor  lies  :— 

She  waits — she  watches — is  she  human  ? 
Is  she  a  Tigress  ?  is  she  a  Woman  ? 
Look  at  the  gleam  of  her  deep-set  eyes  ! 
Bloated  and  stain'd  in  every  feature, 
With  iron  jaws,  throat  knotted  and  bare, 
Eyes  deep  sunken,  jet  black  hair, 
Crouches  the  creature. 
Hark !  hark ! 

Who  cries  outside  in  the  dark  ? 
Only  the  Wind  on  its  way, 
Only  the  wild  gusts  astray, 
In  Tiger  Bay. 

Hold  her  !  scream  !  or  the  man  is  dead  ; 
A  knife  in   her  tight-clench'd   hand    is 

gleaming  ; 

She  will  kill  the  man  as  he  lieth  dream- 
ing ! 

Her  eyes  are  fixed,  her  throat  swells  red. 
The  Wind  is  wailing,  the  Rain  is  weeping  ; 
She  is  crawling  closer — O  Angels  that 

love  him ! 
She  holds  her  breath  and  bends  above 

him, 
While  he  stirreth  sleeping. 

Hark  !  hark  ! 

Who  cries  outside  in  the  dark? 
Only  the  Wind  on  its  way, 
Only  the  wild  gusts  astray 
In  Tiger  Bay. 

A  silken  purse  doth  the  sleeper  clutch, 
And  the  gold  peeps  through  with  a  fatal 

glimmer ! 
She    creepeth    near — the    light    grows 

dimmer — 
Her  thick  throat  swells,  and  she  thirsts  to 

touch. 
She    looks — she     pants    with    a    feverish 

hunger — 
She  dashes  the  black  hair  out  of  her  eyes — 


'  TIGER  BAY*— THE   CITY  ASLEEP. 


159 


She  glares  at  his  face  ...  he  smiles  and 

sighs— 
And  the  face  looks  younger. 

Hark  !  hark  ! 

Who  cries  outside  in  the  dark? 
Only  the  Wind  on  its  way, 
Only  the  wild  gusts  astray 
In  Tiger  Bay. 

She  gazeth  on, — he  doth  not  stir — 

Her  fierce  eyes  close,  her  brute  lip  quivers  ; 
She  longs  to  strike,  but  she  shrinks  and 

shivers  : 

The  light  on  his  face  appalleth  her. 
The  Wind  is  wailing,  the  Rain  is  weeping  : 
Something  holds  her — her  wild  eyes  roll ; 
His  Soul  shines  out,  and  she  fears  his 

Soul, 

Tho'  he  lieth  sleeping. 
Hark  !  hark  ! 

Who  cries  outside  in  the  dark  ? 
Only  the  Wind  on  its  way, 
Only  the  wild  gusts  astray 
In  Tiger  Bay. 

m. 

INTERCESSION. 

I  saw  no  more,  but  I  woke, — and  prayed  : 
'  God  !    that  made  the   Beast  and  the 

Woman  ! 

God  of  the  tigress  !  God  of  the  human  ! 
Look  to  these  things  whom  Thou  hast  made! 
Fierce  and  bloody  and  famine-stricken, 
Knitted  with  iron  vein  and  thew — 
Strong  and  bloody,  behold  the  two  ! — 
We  see  them  and  sicken. 

Mark  !  mark ! 

These  outcasts  fierce  of  the  dark  ; 
Where  murmur  the  Wind  and  the  Rain, 
Where  the  Jungle  darkens  the  plain, 
And  in  street  and  lane.' 

God  answer'd  clear,  '  My  will  be  done  ! 
Woman-tigress  and  tigress- woman — 
I  made  them  both,  the  beast  and  the 
human, 

But  I  struck  a  spark  in  the  brain  of  the  one. 

And  the  spark  is  a  fire,  and  the  fire  is  a 

spirit ; 

Tho'  ye  may  slay  it,  it  cannot  die — 
Nay,  it  shall  grow  as  the  days  go  by, 

For  my  Angels  are  near  it — 


Mark  !  mark ! 

Doth  it  not  burn  in  the  dark  ? 
Spite  of  the  curse  and  the  stain, 
Where  the  Jungle  darkens  the  plain, 
And  in  street  and  lane.' 

God  said,   moreover :    '  The    spark    shall 

grow — 
'Tis  blest,   it    gathers,    its    flame    sha 

lighten, 

Bless  it  and  nurse  it — let  it  brighten  ! 
'Tis  scatter'd  abroad,  'tis  a  Seed  I  sow. 
And  the  Seed  is  a  Soul,  and  the  Soul  is  the 

Human ; 
And  it  lighteth  the  face  with  a  sign  and  a 

flame. 

Not  unto  beasts  have  I  given  the  same, 
But  to  man  and  to  woman. 

Mark  !  mark ! 

The  light  shall  scatter  the  dark  : 
Where  murmur  the  Wind  and  the  Rain, 
Where  the  Jungle  darkens  the  plain, 
And  in  street  and  lane.' 

...  So  faint,  so  dim,  so  sad  to  seeing, 
Behold  it  burning  !    Only  a  spark  ! 
So  faint  as  yet,  and  so  dim  to  mark, 
In  the  tigress-eyes  of  the  human  being. 
Fan  it,  feed  it,  in  love  and  duty, 
Track  it,  watch  it  in  every  place, — 
Till  it  burns  the  bestial  frame  and  face 
To  its  own  dim  beauty. 
Mark  !  mark  ! 

A  spark  that  grows  in  the  dark  ; 
A  spark  that  burns  in  the  brain  ; 
Spite  of  the  Wind  and  the  Rain, 
Spite  of  the  Curse  and  the  Stain  ; 
Over  the  Sea  and  the  Plain, 
And  in  street  and  lane. 


THE   CITY  ASLEEP. 

STILL  as  the  Sea  serene  and  deep, 
When  all  the  winds  are  laid, 

The  City  sleeps— so  still,  its  sleep 
Maketh  the  soul  afraid. 

Over  the  living  waters,  see  ! 

The  Seraphs  shining  go, — 
The  Moon  is  gliding  hushfully 

Through  stars  like  flakes  of  snow. 


r6o 


LONDON  POEMS. 


In  pearl-white  silver  here  and  there 

The  fallen  moon-rays  stream  -. 
Hark  !  a  dull  stir  is  in  the  air, 

Like  the  stir  of  one  in  dream. 

Through  all  the  thrilling  waters  creep 

Deep  throbs  of  strange  unrest, 
Like  washings  of  the  windless  Deep 

When  it  is  peacefullest. 

A  little  while — God's  breath  will  go, 

And  hush  the  flood  no  more  ; 
The  dawn  will  break — the  wind  will  blow, 

The  Ocean  rise  and  roar. 

Each  day  with  sounds  of  strife  and  death 

The  waters  rise  and  call ; 
Each  midnight,  conquer'd  by  God's  breath, 

To  this  dead  calm  they  fall. 

Out  of  His  heart  the  fountains  flow, 

The  brook,  the  running  river, 
He  marks  them  strangely  come  and  go, 

For  ever  and  for  ever. 

Till  darker,  deeper,  one  by  one, 

After  a  weary  quest, 
They,  from  the  light  of  moon  and  sun, 

Flow  back,  into  His  breast. 

Love,  hold  my  hand  !  be  of  good  cheer  ! 

For  His  would  be  the  cost, 
If,  out  of  all  the  waters  here, 

One  little  drop  were  lost. 

Heaven's  eyes  above  the  waters  dumb 

Innumerably  yearn  ; 
Out  of  His  heart  each  drop  hath  come, 

And  thither  must  return. 


UP  IN  AN  ATTIC. 

'  Do  you  dream  yet,  on  your  old  rickety  sofa, 
in  the  dear  old  ghastly  bankrupt  garret  at  No. 
66  ?  '—Gray  to  Buchanan  (see  The  Life  of  David 
Gray). 

HALF  of  a  gold-ring  bright, 

Broken  in  days  of  old, 
One  yellow  curl,  whose  light 
Gladden' d  my  gaze  of  old  ; 
A  sprig  of  thyme  thereto, 
Pluckt  on  the  mountains  blue, 
When  in  the  gloaming-dew 
We  roamed  erratic ; 


Last,  an  old  Book  of  Song,— 
These  have  I  treasured  long, 
Up  in  an  Attic. 

Held  in  one  little  hand, 

They  gleam  in  vain  to  me  : 
Of  Love,  Fame,  Fatherland, 

All  that  remain  to  me  ! 
Love,  with  thy  wounded  wing, 
Up  the  skies  lessening, 
Sighing,  too  sad  to  sing  ! 

Fame,  dead  to  pity  ! 
Land, — that  denied  me  bread  ! 
Count  me  as  lost  and  dead, 

Tomb'd,  in  the  City. 

Daily  the  busy  roar, 

Murmur  and  motion  here  ; 
Surging  against  its  shore, 

Sighs  a  great  Ocean  here  ! 
But  night  by  night  it  flows 
Slowly  to  strange  repose, 
Calm  and  more  calm  it  grows 

Under  the  moonshine : 
Then,  only  then,  I  peer 
On  each  old  souvenir 

Shut  from  the  sunshine. 


Half  of  a  ring  of  gold, 

Tarnish' d  and  yellow  now, 
Broken  in  days  of  old, 

Where  is  thy  fellow  now  ? 
Upon  the  heart  of  her! 
Feeling  the  sweet  blood  stir, 
Still  (though  the  mind  demur) 

Kept  as  a  token  ? 
Ah  !  doth  her  heart  forget? 
Or,  with  the  pain  and  fret . 

Is  that,  too,  broken  ? 

Thin  threads  of  yellow  hair, 

Clipt  from  the  brow  of  her, 
Lying  so  faded  there, — 

Why  whisper  now  of  her  ? 
Strange  lips  are  press'd  unto 
The  brow  o'er  which  ye  grew, 
Strange  fingers  flutter  through 

The  loose  long  tresses. 
Doth  she  remember  still, 
Trembling,  and  turning  chill 

From  his  caresses? 


UP  IN  AN  ATTIC— TO    THE   MOON. 


161 


Sprig  from  the  mountains  blue 

Long  left  behind  me  now, 
Of  moonlight,  shade,  and  dew, 

Wherefore  remind  me  now  ? 
Cruel  and  chill  and  gray, 
Looming  afar  away, 
Dark  in  the  light  of  day, 

Shall  the  Heights  daunt  me  ? 
My  footsteps  on  the  hill 
Are  overgrown, — yet  still 

Hill-echoes  haunt  me  ! 

Book  of  Byronic  Song, 

Put  with  the  dead  away, 
Wherefore  wouldst  thou  prolong 

Dreams  that  have  fled  away  ? 
Thou  art  an  eyeless  skull, 
Dead,  fleshless,  cold,  and  null, 
Complexionless,  dark,  dull, 

And  superseded  ; 
Yet,  in  thy  time  of  pride, 
How  loudly  hast  thou  lied 

To  all  who  heeded  ! 

Now,  Fame,  thou  hollow  Voice, 

Shriek  from  the  heights  above  ! 
Let  all  who  will  rejoice 

In  those  wild  lights  above  ! 
When  all  are  false  save  you, 
Yet  were  so  beauteous  too, 
O  Fame,  canst  thou  be  true, 

And  shall  I  follow? 
Nay  !  for  the  song  of  Man 
Dies  in  his  throat,  since  Pan 

Hath  slain  Apollo  ! 

O  Fame,  thy  hill  looks  tame, 

No  vast  wings  flee  from  thence,  - 
Were  /  to  climb,  O  Fame, 

What  could  I  see  from  thence  ? 
Only,  afar  away, 
The  mountains  looming  gray, 
Crimson'd  at  close  of  day, 

Clouds  swimming  by  me  ; 
And  in  my  hand  a  ring 
And  ringlet  glimmering, — 

And  no  one  nigh  me  ! 

Better  the  busy  roar, 

Best  the  mad  motion  here  ! 
Surging  against  its  shore, 

Groans  a  great  Ocean  here. 


O  Love, — thou  wouldst  not  wait ! 
O  Land, — thou  art  desolate  ! 

0  Fame, — to  others  prate 
Of  flights  ecstatic  ! 

Only,  at  evenfall, 

Touching  these  tokens  small, 

1  think  about  you  all, 
Up  in  an  Attic  ! 


TO   THE  MOON. 

THE  wind  is  shrill  on  the  hills,  and  the 

plover 
Wheels   up  and    down    with    a    windy 

scream  ; 
The  birch  has  loosen'd  her  bright  locks 

over 
The  nut-brown  pools  of  the  mountain 

stream  ; 
Yet  here  I  linger  in  London  City, 

Thinking  of  meadows  where  I  was  born — 
And  over  the  roofs,  like  a  face  of  pity, 
Up  comes  the  Moon,  with  her  dripping 
horn. 

0  Moon,  pale  Spirit,  with  dim  eyes  drink- 

ing 

The  sheen  of  the  Sun  as  he  sweepeth 
by, 

1  am  looking  long  in  those  eyes,  and  think- 

ing 
Of  one  who  hath  loved  thee  longer  than 

I; 

I  am  asking  my  heart  if  ye  Spirits  cherish 
The  souls  that  ye  witch  with  a  harvest 

call?— • 
If  the  dream  must  die  when  the  dreamer 

perish? — 
If  it  be  idle  to  dream  at  all? 

The  waves  of  the  world  roll  hither  and 

thither, 

The  tumult  deepens,  the  days  go  by, 
The  dead  men  vanish — we  know  not  whither, 
The  live  men    anguish — we    know  not 

why  ; 

The  cry  of  the  stricken  is  smother'd  never, 
The  Shadow  passes  from  street  to  street  ; 
And — o'er  us  fadeth,  for  ever  and  ever, 
The  still  white  gleam   of  thy  constant 
feet. 

M 


1 62 


LONDON  POEMS. 


The  hard  men  struggle,  the  students  ponder, 
The  world  rolls  round  on  its  westward 

way ; 
The  gleam  of  the  beautiful  night  up  yonder 

Is  dim  on  the  dreamer's  cheek  all  day  ; 
The  old  earth's  voice  is  a  sound  of  weeping, 
Round  her    the  waters  wash  wild  and 

vast, 

There  is  no  calm,  there  is  little  sleeping, — 
Yet  nightly,   brightly,    thou  glimmerest 
past ! 

Another  summer,  new  dreams  departed, 

And  yet  we  are  lingering,  thou  and  I ; 
I  on  the  earth,  with  my  hope  proud-hearted, 

Thou,  in  the  void  of  a  violet  sky  ! 
Thou  art  there  !  I  am  here  !  and  the  reaping 
and  mowing 

Of  the  harvest  year  is  over  and  done, 
And  the   hoary  snow-drift  will    soon    be 
blowing 

Under  the  wheels  of  the  whirling  Sun. 

While  tower  and  turret  lie  silver'd  under, 

When  eyes  are  closed  and  lips  are  dumb, 
In  the  nightly  pause  of  the  human  wonder, 

From  dusky  portals  I  see  thee  come  ; 
And  whoso  wakes  and  beholds  thee  yonder, 

Is  witch' d  like  me  till    his  days  shall 

cease, — 
For  in  his  eyes,  wheresoever  he  wander, 

Flashes  the  vision  of  God's  white  Peace  ! 


SPRING  SONG  IN   THE  CITY. 

WHO  remains  in  London, 

In  the  streets  with  me, 
Now  that  Spring  is  blowing 

Warm  winds  from  the  sea  ; 
Now  that  trees  grow  green  and  tall, 

Now  the  Sun  shines  mellow, 
And  with  moist  primroses  all 

English  lanes  are  yellow  ? 

Little  barefoot  maiden, 

Selling  violets  blue, 
Hast  thou  ever  pictured 

Where  the  sweetlings  grew  ? — 
Oh,  the  warm  wild  woodland  ways, 

Deep  in  dewy  grasses, 
Where  the  wind-blown  shadow  strays, 

Scented  as  it  passes  ! 


Pedlar  breathing  deeply, 

Toiling  into  town, 
With  the  dusty  highway 

Thou  art  dusky  brown, — 
Hast  thou  seen  by  daisied  leas. 

And  by  rivers  flowing, 
Lilac  ringlets  which  the  breeze 

Loosens  lightly  blowing? 

Out  of  yonder  waggon 

Pleasant  hay-scents  float, 
He  who  drives  it  carries 

A  daisy  in  his  coat : 
Oh,  the  English  meadows,  fair 

Far  beyond  all  praises ! 
Freckled  orchids  everywhere 

Mid  the  snow  of  daisies  ! 

Now  in  busy  silence 

Broods  the  nightingale, 
Choosing  his  love's  dwelling 

In  a  dimpled  dale  ; 
Round  the  leafy  bower  they  raise 

Rose-trees  wild  are  springing  ; 
Underneath,  thro"  the  green  haze, 

Bounds  the  brooklet  singing. 

And  his  love  is  silent 

As  a  bird  can  be, 
For  the  red  buds  only 

Fill  the  red  rose-tree, — 
Just  as  buds  and  blossoms  blow 

He'll  begin  his  tune, 
When  all  is  green  and  roses  glow 

Underneath  the  Moon  ! 

Nowhere  in  the  valleys 

Will  the  wind  be  still, 
Everything  is  waving, 

Wagging  at  his  will : 
Blows  the  milkmaid's  kirtle  clean, 

With  her  hand  prest  on  it ! 
Lightly  o'er  the  hedge  so  green 

Blows  the  ploughboy's  bonnet ! 

Oh,  to  be  a-roaming 

In  an  English  dell ! 
Every  nook  is  wealthy, 

All  the  world  looks  well, 
Tinted  soft  the  Heavens  glow, 

Over  Earth  and  Ocean, 
Brooks  flow,  breezes  blow, 

All  is  light  and  motion  I 


IN  LONDON,    MARCH  iB66--A  LARK'S  FLIGHT. 


163 


IN  LONDON,   MARCH  1866. 

TO-DAY  the  streets  are  dull  and  dreary, 

Heavily,  slowly  the  Rain  is  falling, 
I  hear  around  me,  and  am  weary, 

The  people  murmuring  and  calling  ; 
The  gloomy  room  is  full  of  faces, 

Firelight  shadows  are  on  the  floor, 
And  the  deep  Wind  cometh  from  country 

places, 
And  the  Rain  hath  a  voice  I  would  hear 

no  more. 
Ah  !  weary  days  of  windy  weather ! 

And  will  the  Rain  cease  never,  never! 
A  summer  past  we  sat  together, 
In  that  lost  life  that  lives  for  ever  ! 

Ah  !  sad  and  slow  the  Rain  is  falling, — 

And  singing  on  seems  sad  without  him. 
Ah  !  wearily  the  Wind  is  calling  ! 
Would  that  mine  arms  were  round  about 

him  ! 
For  the  world  rolls  on  with  air  and  ocean 

Wetly  and  windily  round  and  round, 
And  sleeping  he  feeleth  the  sad  still  motion, 
And  dreameth  of  me,  though  his  sleep  be 

sound ! 
Ah  !  weary  days  of  windy  weather  ! 

And  will  the  Rain  cease  never,  never! 
A  summer  past  we  sat  together, 
In  that  lost  life  that  lives  for  ever  ! 

I  sing,  because  my  heart  is  aching, 

With  hollow  sounds  around  me  ringing  : 
Ah  !  nevermore  shall  he  awaking 

Yearn  to  the  Singer  and  the  Singing  ! 
Yet  sleep,  my  father,  calm  and  breathless, 
And  if  thou  dreamest,  dream  on  in  joy  ! 
While  over  thy  grave  walks  Love  the  death- 
less, 

Stir  in  the  darkness,  and  bless  thy  boy  ! 
Ah  !  weary  days  of  windy  weather  ! 

And  will  the  Rain  cease  never, 'never! 
A  summer  past  we  sat  together, 
In  that  lost  life  that  lives  for  ever  ! 


A   LARICS  FLIGHT. 

IN  the  quiet  City  park, 
Between  the  dawn  and  the  dark, 

Loud  and  clear, 

That  all  may  hear, 
Sings  the  Lark. 


Beyond  the  low  black  line 

Of  trees  the  dawn  peeps  red, — 
Clouds  blow  woolly  and  fine 

In  the  ether  overhead, 
Out  of  the  air  is  shaken 

A  fresh  and  glistening  dew, 
And  the  City  begins  to  awaken 

And  tremble  thro'  and  thro' ; 
See !  (while  thro'  street  and  lane 
The  people  pour  again, 
And  lane  and  alley  and  street 
Grow  hoarse  to  a  sound  of  feet, ) 
Here  and  there 

A  human  Shape  comes,  dark 
Against  the  cool  white  air, 

Flitting  across  the  park- 
While  over  the  dew-drench'd  green, 

Singing  his  '  Hark  !  Oh,  hark  ! ' 
Hovering,  hovering,  dimly  seen, 

Rises  the  Lark. 

'  Mystery  !     Oh,  mystery  ! ' 
Clear  he  lilts  to  lightening  day. 

1  Mystery  !     Oh,  mystery  ! 

Up  into  the  air  with  me, 
Come  away,  come  away  ! ' 

Who  is  she  that,  wan  and  white, 
Shivering  in  the  chilly  light, 
Shadeth  weary  eyes  to  see 
Him  who  makes  the  melody  ? 
She  is  nameless,  she  is  dull, 
She  has  ne'er  been  beautiful, 
She  is  stain'd  in  brain  and  blood, 
Gross  with  mire,  and  foul  with  mud, 
Thing  of  sorrow,  what  knows  she 
Of  the  mighty  mystery? 

The  Lark  sings  sad  and  low, — 
'  The  City  is  dull  and  mean — 

There  is  woe  !  there  is  woe  ! 
Never  a  soul  is  clean  ; 

The  City  is  dark,  the  wrong  is  deep  ; 

Too  late  to  moan,  too  late  to  weep  ! 

Tired,  tired  !  sleep,  sleep  ! ' 

Who  is  he,  the  stooping  one, 
Smiling  coldly  in  the  sun, 
Arms  behind  him  lightly  thrown, 
Pacing  up  and  down  alone  ? 
'Tis  the  great  Philosopher, 
Smoothly  wrapt  in  coat  of  fur, 
Soothly  pondering,  man-wit  wise, 
At  his  morning  exercise. 

M  2 


i64 


LONDON  POEMS. 


He  has  weigh'd  the  winds  and  floods, 

He  is  rich  in  gather'd  goods, 

He  is  crafty,  and  can  prove 

God  is  Brahma,  Christ,  nor  Jove  ; 

He  is  mighty,  and  his  soul 

Flits  about  from  pole  to  pole, 

Chasing  signs  of  God  about, 

In  a  pleasant  kind  of  doubt ; — 

What,  to  help  the  mystery, 

Sings  the  Lark  to  such  as  he? 

The  Lark  cries : 

'  Praise  to  Nature's  plan  ! 
Year  on  year  she  plies 
Her  toil  of  sun  and  skies, 

Till  the  beast  flowers  up  in  Man, 
Lord  of  effect  and  cause, 

Proud  as  a  King  can  be  ; 
But  a  Voice  in  the  cloud  cries,  ' '  Pause! " 

And  he  pauses,  even  he, 

On  the  verge  of  the  Mystery.' 

Oh,  loud  and  clear,  that  all  may  hear, 
Rising  higher,  with  '  Hark  !  Oh,  hark!' 

Higher,  higher,  higher,  higher, 

Quivering  as  the  dull  red  fire 
Of  dawn  grows  brighter,  cries  the  Lark  : 

And  they  who  listen  there  while  he 

Singeth  loud  of  Mystery, 

Interpret  him  in  under-tone 

With  a  meaning  of  their  own, 

Measuring  his  melody 

By  their  own  soul's  quality, 

Tall  and  stately,  fair  and  sweet, 

Walketh  maiden  Marguerite, 

Musing  there  on  maid  and  man, 

In  her  mood  patrician  ; 

To  all  she  sees  her  eyes  impart 

The  colour  of  a  maiden  heart ; 

Heart's  chastity  is  on  her  face, 

She  scents  the  air  with  nameless  grace, 

And  where  she  goes  with  heart  astir, 

Colour  and  motion  follow  her. 

What  should  the  Singer  sing 
Unto  so  sweet  a  thing, 

But,  '  Oh,  my  love  loves  me  ! 
And  the  love  I  love  best  is  guarding  the  nest, 

While  I  cheer  her  merrily, — 
Come  up  high  !  come  up  high  !  to  a  cloud 

in  the  sky  ! 
And  sing  of  your  love  with  me  1 ' 


Elbows  on  the  grassy  green, 
Scowling  face  his  palms  between, 
Yonder  gaunt  Thief  meditates 
Treason  deep  against  his  mates  ; 
For  his  great  hands  itch  to  hold 
Both  the  pardon  and  the  gold. 
Still  he  listens  unaware, 
Scowling  round  with  sullen  stare, 
Gnawing  at  his  under-lio, 
Pond'ring  friends  and  fellowship, 
Thinking  of  a  friendly  thing 
Done  to  him  in  suffering, 
And  of  happy  days  and  free 
Spent  in  that  rough  companie  : 
Till  he  seeks  the  bait  no  more, — 
And  the  Lark  is  conqueror. 

For  the  Lark  says  plain, 

'  Who  sells  his  pal  is  mean  : 
Better  hang  than  gain 

Blood-money  to  save  one's  skin — 
A  whip  for  the  rogue  who'd  tell,' 

He  hears  the  Singer  say, — 
1  Better  the  rope  and  the  cell — 
Better  the  devils  of  Hell  ! 

Come  away  !  come  away  ! ' 

O  Lark  !     O  Lark  ! 

Up,  up,  for  it  is  light — 
The  Souls  stream  out  of  the  dark, 

And  the  City's  spires  gleam  bright ; 
The  living  world  is  awake  again, 

Each  wanders  on  his  way, 
The  wonderful  waters  break  again 

In  the  white  and  perfect  Day. 
Nay  !  nay  !  descend  not  yet, 

But  higher,  higher,  higher ! 
Up  thro'  the  air,  and  wet 

Thy  wings  in  the  solar  fire  ! 
There,  hovering  in  ecstacy, 
Sing,  '  Mystery  !     Oh,  mystery  ! ' 

O  Lark  !  O  Lark  !  hadst  thou  the  might 

Beyond  the  cloud  to  wing  thy  way, 
To  sing  and  soar  in  ceaseless  flight, 

It  might  be  well  for  men  this  day. 
Beyond  that  cloud  there  is  a  zone, 

And  in  that  zone  there  is  a  land, 
And  in  that  land,  upon  a  throne, 
A  mighty  Spirit  sits  alone, 

With  musing  cheek  upon  His  hand. 


A   LARKS  FLIGHT- -DE  BERNY. 


165 


And  all  is  still  and  all  is  sweet 
Around  the  silence  of  His  seat, — 

Beneath,  the  waves  of  wonder  flow, — 
And  melted  on  His  shining  feet 

The  years  flash  down  as  falling  snow. 

O  Lark  !  O  Lark  ! 

Up  !  for  thy  wings  are  strong  ; 
While  the  Day  is  breaking, 
And  the  City  is  waking, 

Sing  a  song  of  wrong — 
Sing  of  the  weak  man's  tears, 

Of  the  strong  man's  agony  ; 
The  passion,  the  hopes,  the  fears, 
The  heaped-up  pain  of  the  years, 

The  human  mystery. 
O  Lark  !  we  might  rejoice, 

Could'st  reach  that  distant  land, 
For  we  cannot  hear  His  voice, 

And  we  often  miss  His  hand  ! 
And  the  lips  of  each  are  ice 

To  the  kiss  of  sister  and  brother  ; 
And  we  see  that  one  man's  vice 

Is  the  virtue  of  another. 
Yea,  each  that  hears  thee  sing 

Translates  thy  song  to  speech, 
And,  lo  !  the  rendering 

Is  so  different  with  each  ! 
The  gentle  are  oppress'd, 
The  foul  man  fareth  best ; 
Wherever  we  seek,  our  gain 
Is  full  of  a  poisonous  pain. 
In  one  soft  note  and  long 
Gather  our  sense  of  wrong  ; 
Rise  up,  O  Lark  !  from  the  sod, 

Up,  up,  with  soundless  wings, — 
Rise  up  to  God !  rise  up,  rise  up,  to  God! 

Tell  Him  these  things  ! 


DE  BERNY. 

You  knew  him  slightly.     We,  who  knew 

him  well, 
Saw  something  in  his  soul  you  could  not 

see  : 

A  strength  wherein  his  very  vices  throve, 
A  power  that  darken'd  much  the  outer  man, 
Strange,  yet  angelically  innocent. 
His  views  were  none  of  ours  ;  his  morals  — 

well, 

Not  English  morals  at  the  best ;  and  yet 
We  loved  him  and  we  miss  him  ; — the  old 

haunts 


Seem  dull  without  that  foolish  full-grown 
child ; 

The  world  goes  on  without  him  : — London 
throngs 

With  sport  and  festival ;  and  something  less 

Than  poor  De  Berny  haunts  us  every- 
where— 

The  buying  and  the  selling,  and  the  strife 

Of  little  natures. 

What  a  man  was  that ! — 
Just  picture  him  as  you  perceived  him,  Noel, 
Standing  beyond  his  circle.    Spare  and  tall, 
Black-bearded  and  black-eyed;  a  sallow  face, 
With  lines  of  idle  humour  round  the  lips  ; 
A  nose  and  eyebrow  proudly  curved  ;  an  eye 
Clear  as  a  child's.    But  thirty  summers  old  ! 
Yet  wearied  out,  save  only  when  he  warm'd 
His  graces  in  the  sunshine.     What  an  air 
Was  his,  when,  cigarette  in  mouth,  and  hands 
Thrust  in  the  pockets  of  his  pantaloons, 
He  took  his  daily  walk  down  Regent  Street, 
Stared  at  the  pretty  girls,  saluted  friends, 
And,  pleased  as  any  lady,  stopp'd  to  study 
The  fashions  in  the  windows  of  the  shops  ! 
Did  he  not  walk  as  if  he  walk'd  on  thrones, 
With  smiles  of  vacant  patronage  for  all? 
And  who  could  guess  he  had  not  break- 
fasted, 

Had  little  chance  of  dining,  since  his  purse 
Held  just  the  wherewithal  to  buy  a  loaf — 
Change  from  the  shilling  spent  in  purchasing 
The  sweet  post-prandial  cigar  ! 

He  lived— 

Ah !  Heaven  knew  how — for  'twas  a  mystery ! 
While  the  sun  shone,  he  saunter'd  in  the 


But  late  at  night  sat  scribbling,  by  the  light 
Of  a  wax-candle.  Wax  ?  De  Berny's  way  ; 
For,  mark,  this  wanderer  let  his  body  suffer, 
Hunger'd  and  pinch'd,  rather  than  bate  a  jot 
Of  certain  very  useless  luxuries  : 
Smoked  nought  but  real  Havannah,  'tis 

averr'd, 

And  sat  at  night  within  his  dingy  lodging, 
Wrapt,  king-like,  in  a  costly  dressing-gown 
His  mother  gave  him  ;  slippers  on  his  feet  ; 
His     cat,     Mignonne,     the     silken-hair'd 

Chinese, 

Seated  upon  his  shoulder,  purring  low  ; 
And  something  royal  in  his  look,  despite 
His  threadbare  pantaloons ! 


166 


LONDON  POEMS. 


A  clever  man ! 

A  nature  sparkling  o'er  whhjeux  d' esprit  I 
Well  read  in  certain  light  philosophies 
Down  from  Voltaire  ;  and,  in  his  easy  way, 
A  sceptic — one  whose  heart  belied  his  brain. 
Oft,  leaning  back  and  puffing  his  cigar, 
Pushing  his  wan  white  fingers  through  his 

hair— 
His     cat     Mignonne,      the     velvet-paw'd 

Chinese, 
Rubbing  her  soft  white  cheek  against  his 

beard, 

And  purring  her  approval — he  would  sit, 
Smiling  his    sad,    good-humour 'd,    weary 

smile, 
And  lightly  launch  his  random,   reckless 

shafts 

At  English  thrift,  the  literary  cant, 
The  flat,  unearnest  living  of  the  world, 
And  (last  and  lightest)  at  the  tender  sex, 
Their  little  virtue  and  their  mighty  vows. 

This  was  the  man  whose  face  went  pale 

with  pain, 
When  that  shrill  shriek  from  Poland  fill'd 

his  ear  ; 
This  was  the  man  who  pinch'd  himself  to 

send 

A  mite  to  Garibaldi  and  the  Cause  ; 
Who  cried,  or  nearly  cried,  o'er  Lamartine, 
And  loved  the  passionate  passages  of  Sand  ; 
Who  would  have  kiss'd  the  ground  beneath 

the  feet 

Of  any  shape  called  '  Woman,'  plain  or  fair  ; 
Gave  largess  royal  to  children  in  the  streets  ; 
Treated  an  unclean  beggar  seeking  alms 
To  a  clean  shirt,  and  sent  him  off  amazed  ; 
And  when  he  heard  sweet  voice  or  instru- 
ment, 
Breath'd  passionate  breath,  like  one  that 

drinks  with  pain 

An  atmosphere  too  heavenly  rare  and  sweet. 
Pleasure  ?    Ah  me  !  what  pleasure  garner 'd 

he, 

Who  fasted  oftener  than  ate  ;  who  pawn'd 
His  coat  to  serve  a  neighbour,  and  was  cold  ; 
Whose  only  little  joy  was  promenading 
On  sunny  summer  days  in  Regent  Street  ? 
His  talk  ?    Why,  how  he  talk'd,  as  I  have 

said  ; 
Incubus  could  not  prove  his  neighbours 

worise, 
Or  himself  blacker,  or  the  cold  world  colder; 


His  jests  so  oft  too  broad  for  decent  ears, 
His  impiousness  so  insolently  strong, 
His  languid  grace  so  callous  unto  all 
Save  the  sad  sunshine  that  it  flutter'd  in. 
Yet,  Noel,  I  could  swear  that  Spirits — those 
Who  see  beneath  the  eyes,  and  hear  the 

breathing 

The  Soul  makes  as  it  stirs  within  the  breast — 
Bent  not  unlovingly,  not  angrily, 
Above  that  weary,  foolish,  full-grown  Child  ! 

Weary— of  what  ?  Weary,  I  think,  for  want 
Of  something  whose  existence  he  denied  ; 
Not  sick  of  life,  since  he  had  never  felt 
The  full  of  living — wearied  out,  because 
The  world  look'd  falsehood,  and  his  turn 
was  truth. 

Well,  late  one  morning  in  the  summer  time, 
They  found  him  lying  in  his  easy-chair, 
Wrapt  royally  in  the  costly  dressing-gown 
His  mother  gave  him,  slippers  on  his  feet, 
And  something  royal  in  his  look, — cold, 

dead! 

A  smell  of  laudanum  sicken'd  all  the  air 
Around  him  ;  on  the  table  at  his  side 
A  copy  of  De  Mussel's  Elle  et  Lui  ; 
And  close  at  hand  a  crumpled  five-pound 

note, 
On  which  was  written  in  his  round  clear 

hand 
1  Pour  Garibaldi.     Vive  la  Liberte  /' 


THE    WAKE   OF  TIM  WHARA. 

(SEVEN  DIALS.) 

TotheWakeofO'Hara 
Came  company ; 

All  St.  Patrick's  Alley 
Was  there  to  see, 

With  the  friends  and  kinsmen 

Of  the  family. 

On  the  long  deal  table  lay  Tim  in  white, 
And  at  his  pillow  the  burning  light. 
Pale  as  himself,  with  the  tears  on  her  cheek, 
The  mother  received  us,  too  full  to  speak  ; 
But  she  heap'd  the  fire,  and  on  the  board 
Set  the  black  bottle  with  never  a  word, 
While  the  company  gather' d,  one  and  all, 
Men  and  women,  big  and  small — 
Not  one  in  the  Alley  but  felt  a  call 

To  the  Wake  of  Tim  O'Hara. 


THE    WAKE   OF   TIM  O>HARA. 


167 


At  the  face  of  O' Kara, 
All  white  with  sleep, 

Not  one  of  the  women 
But  took  a  peep, 

And  the  wives  new-wedded 

Began  to  weep. 

The  mothers  gather'd  round  about, 
And  praised  the  linen  and  lying-out,— 
For  white  as  snow  was  his  winding-sheet, 
And  all  was  peaceful,  and  clean,  and  sweet ; 
And  the  old  wives,  praising  the  blessed  dead, 
Were  thronging  around  the  old  press-bed, 
Where  O'Hara's  widow,  tatter'd  and  torn, 
Held  to  her  bosom  the  babe  new-born, 
And  stared  all  round  her,  with  eyes  forlorn, 

At  the  Wake  of  Tim  O'Hara. 

For  the  heart  of  O'Hara 
Was  good  as  gold, 

And  the  life  of  O'Hara 
Was  bright  and  bold, 

And  his  smile  was  precious 

To  young  and  old  ! 
Gay  as  a  guinea,  wet  or  dry, 
With  a  smiling  mouth,  and  a  twinkling  eye  ! 
Had  ever  an  answer  for  ( haff  and  fun  ; 
Would  fight  like  a  lion,  with  any  one  ! 
Not  a  neighbour  of  any  trade 
But  knew  some  joke  that  the  boy  had  made  ; 
Not  a  neighbour,  dull  or  bright, 
But  minded  something—  frolic  or  fight, 
And  whisper'd  it  round  the  fire  that  night, 

At  the  Wake  of  Tim  O'Hara  ! 

'  To  God  be  glory 
In  death  and  life, 

He's  taken  O'Hara 

From  trouble  and  strife  ! ' 

Said  one-eyed  Biddy, 

The  apple-wife. 

'  God  bless  old  Ireland ! '  said  Mistress  Hart, 
Mother  to  Mike  of  the  donkey-cart ; 
1  God  bless  old  Ireland  till  all  be  done, 
She  never  made  wake  for  a  better  son  ! ' 
And  all  join'd  chorus,  and  each  one  said 
Something  kind  of  the  boy  that  was  dead  ; 
And  the  bottle  went  round  from  lip  to  lip, 
And  the  weeping  widow,  for  fellowship, 
Took  the  glass  of  old  Biddy  and  had  a  sip, 

At  the  Wake  of  Tim  O'Hara. 

Then  we  drank  to  O'Hara, 
With  drams  to  the  brim, 


While  the  face  of  O'Hara 
Look'd  on  so  grim 

In  the  corpse-light  shining 

Yellow  and  dim, 

The  cup  of  liquor  went  round  again, 
And  the  talk  grew  louder  at  every  drain  , 
Louder  the  tongues  of  the  women  grew  ! — 
The  lips  of  the  boys  were  loosening  too  ! 
The  widow  her  weary  eyelids  closed, 
And,  soothed  by  the  drop  o'  drink,   she 

dozed  ; 

The  mother  brighten'd  and  laugh'd  to  hear 
Of  O'Hara's  fight  with  the  grenadier, 
And  the  hearts  of  all  took  better  cheer, 

At  the  Wake  of  Tim  O'Hara. 

Tho'  the  face  of  O'Hara 

Lookt  on  so  wan, 
In  the  chimney-corner 

The  row  began — 
Lame  Tony  was  in  it, 

The  oyster-man  ; 
For  a  dirty  low  thief  from  the  North  came 

near, 

And  whistled  '  Boyne  Water '  in  his  ear, 
And  Tony,  with  never  a  word  of  grace, 
Flung  out    his    .fist  in    the    blackguard's 

face; 
And  the  girls  and  women  scream'd  out  for 

fright, 
And  the  men  that  were  drunkest  began  to 

fight,— 

Over  the  tables  and  chairs  they  threw,  — 
The    corpse-light    tumbled, — the    trouble 

grew, — 

The  new-born  joined  in  the  hullabaloo, — 
At  the  Wake  of  Tim  O'Hara. 


1  Be  still !  be  silent ! 

Ye  do  a  sin  ! 
Shame  be  his  portion 
Who  dares  begin  ! ' 
Twas  Father  O'Connor 

Just  enter'd  in ! — 

All  look'd  down,  and  the  row  was  done — 
And  shamed  and  sorry  was  every  one  ; 
But  the  Priest  just  smiled  quite  easy  and 

free— 
'  Would  ye  wake  the  poor  boy  from  his 

sleep  ? '  said  he  ; 

And  he  said  a  prayer,  with  a  shining  face, 
Till  a  kind  of  a  brightness  filled  the  place  ; 


i68 


LONDON  POEMS. 


hv 


The  women  lit  up  the  dim  corpse-light, 
The  men  were  quieter  at  the  sight, 
And  the  peace  of  the  Lord  fell  on  all  that 
night 
At  the  Wake  of  Tim  O'Hara  ! 


KITTY  KEMBLE. 

'  All  the  world's  a  stage.' 

DRAW  softly  back  the  curtains  of  the  bed- 
Aye,  here  lies  Kitty  Kemble  cold  and  dead  : 
Poor  Kitty  Kemble,  if  I  steal  a  kiss, 
Who  deems  the  deed  amiss  ? 

Cold  bloodless  cheek  whereon  there  lingers 

faint 
The  crimson   dye    of  a   life's  rouge  and 

paint ; 
Cold  lips  that  fall,  since  thy  false  rows  of 

teeth 

No  longer  prop  the  toothless  gums  beneath  ; 
Cold  clammy  brow  that  lies  there  bald  and 

bare 
No  longer  screen'd  and  shadow'd  by  false 

hair  ; 

Poor  Kitty  Kemble  !  is  it  truly  thou 
On  whom  I  look  so  very  sadly  now? 
Lightest  of  ladies,  is  thy  mortal  race 
Run  out  indeed,  thy  luminous  laughing  face 
Turn'd  to  this  mindless  mask  of  marble 

dead? 

And  even  thy  notes  of  tinkling  laughter  fled, 
Which,  when  all  other  charms  to  please 

were  past, 
Stay'd  with  thee  till  the  last  ? 

GOD  bless  thee,  Kitty  Kemble  !—  and  GOD 

love  thee  ! 
Warm  be  the  kindred  earth  that  lies  above 

thee — 

Lightest  of  ladies,  never  sad  or  sage, 
A  glad  coquette  at  sixty  years  of  age, 
And  even  with  thy  last  expiring  breath 
Flirting  thy  fan  at  thy  lean  Lover,  Death  ! 

Tho'  nature  made  you  volatile  and  witty, 
Your    parents  were    most  vulgar  people, 

Kitty  ; 
Hard  work  was  daily  yours,   and  trouble 

maybe 
To  mind  the  wretched  house  and  nurse  the 

baby, 


While  to  the  third-class  Theatre  hard  by 
Your  father  and  your  mother  both  did  hie, 
Mother  as  dresser,  while  with  surly  mien 
Toil'd  father  as  a  shifter  of  the  scene  ; 
And  thus  it  happen'd  that  you  early  grew 
Familiar  with  the  British  drama  too, 
And  thro'  the  dusty  stage-door  you  would 

steal 

With  father's  midday  beer  or  evening  meal, 
Until  that  blissful  day  when  to  your  glee 
The  keen-eyed  ballet-master  noticed  thee, 
And  quickly,  being  a  bright  and  clever  girl, 
You  learnt  from  him  to  dance  and  twist  and 

twirl, 

Leaping  ere  long  before  the  garish  lights, 
A  smiling  spangled  creature  in  pink  tights. 
Aye,  Kitty,  and  the  common  scandal  says 
The  ballet-master  in  those  early  days. 
Finding  you  quick  and  rapidly  advancing, 
Taught    you    love's    dalliance  as   well  as 

dancing  ! 

But  you  were  very  clever  ;  and  ere  long 
Were    brightest,     smartest    of   the    ballet 

throng ; 

No  lighter  trimmer  leg  was  to  be  seen 
When  you  were  only  rising  seventeen, 
And  from  the  stalls  to  your  sweet  guileless 

eyes 

Ogles  and  nods  and  smiles  began  to  rise. 
Then  later,  like  a  wise  girl  and  a  pretty, 
You  chose  to  bless  a  close  man  from  the 

City, 

Quiet,  respectable,  and  most  demure 
With  a  stiff  salary  and  prospects  sure  ; 
And  him,  my  dear,  you  used  for  your  am- 
bition 

Still  bent  of  course  to  better  your  position. 
For  tho"  so  light  and  merry,  you  were  ever 
Ambitious,  Kitty,  quick  and  bright  and 

clever  ; 

And  now  you  got  your  educated  lover 
To  hear  you  read  the  British  drama  over, 
To  criticise  your  clever  imitations 
Of  the  tall  leading  lady's  declamations, 
And  to  correct  your  tone,  and  guide  your 

tongue, 
Whenever  you  pronounced  your   English 

wrong  ; 

And  tho'  the  fellow  was  in  soul  a  bore, 
And  had  no  intellect  to  help  you  more, 
You  got  in  this  Bohemian  sort  of  college 
Some  gleams  of  grace  and  scraps  of  solid 

knowledge ; 


KITTY  KEMBLE. 


169 


And  while  your  silly  sisters  took  repose 
You  grew  grammatical,  as  grammar  goes. 

O  Kitty,  what  a  lavish  little  elf 

Thou  wast,  yet  economic  of  thyself  ! 

So  free,  so  merry,  and  innocent  of  guile  ; 

And  yet  at  heart  so  busy,  all  the  while 

You  danced  and  dallied  with  those  sparkling 

eyes, 

In  weighty  speculations  how  to  rise  ! 
Yes,   Kitty,  and  you  rose ;   ere  long  you 

made 

The  prettiest,  wittiest  sort  of  chambermaid 
(That  saucy  female  elf  of  the  stage-inn, 
Chuck'd  by  each  handsome  guest  beneath 

the  chin  ; 

A  nymph  oft  carrying  a  warming-pan, 
And  sweetheart  of  the  comic  waiting-man) 
Or  haply,  on  extravaganza  nights, 
As  a  slim  fairy  prince  in  trunks  and  tights, 
You  pertly  spake  a  dozen  lines  or  so, 
While  just  behind  you,  glaring  in  a  row, 
Your  sillier  sisters  of  the  ballet  stood, 
With  spleen  and  envy  raging  in  their  blood  ! 
Thus,  Kitty  Kemble,  on  and  up  you  went, 
Merry,  yet  ill  content  ; 
And  soon  you  cast,  inflated  still  with  pride, 
Your  City  man  aside, 
Cut  him  stone  dead  to  his  intense  annoy, 
And,  like  a  maiden  coy, 
Dropt,  blushing  crimson,  in  the  arms  scarce 

vital 

Of  an  old  man  of  title  ! 
A  sad  dyspeptic  dog,  the  worn  and  yellow 
Wreck  of  a  handsome  fellow, 
And  tho'  the  lord  of  boundless  rolls  and 

lands, 
Just  a  mere  puppet  in  your  pretty  hands. 

O    Kitty   Kemble,    how  you  coaxed  and 

teased  him, 
Nursed  him  and  pain'd   him,  petted  him 

and  pleased  him, 
Drove  him  nigh  crazy,  made  his  slow  blood 

start 
With  the  glad   beating  of  your  burning 

heart, 
Until   he   vowed,    you    managed    him    so 

neatly, 

To  marry  you  completely  ; 
And  with  this  view  transmitted  you,  poor 

fool, 
To  a  French  boarding-school ; 


And  there  you  taught,  I  fear,  your  power 

being  such, 
More  than  you  learnt,  tho'  what  you  learnt 

was  much  ! 

0  you  were  still  and  patient  as  a  mouse, 
Much  as  your  spirit  hated  the  strict  house, 
The  teachers  grim,  the  insipid   simpering 

misses, 
The  walks — so  different  from  the  coulisses  ! 

There  learning  patiently  did  you  abide, 
Till  one  fine  morning  your  protector  died, 
And  once  again,  alas  !  as  in  times  past. 
On  the  hard  world  your  gentle  lot  was  cast. 
But,  Kitty,  what  a  change  in  you  was  made 
By   those    few  seasons    wintering    in   the 

shade  ; 

In  like  a  common  moth  you  crept  full  sly, 
But  out  you  came  a  perfect  butterfly  1 
A  pretty  little  sparkling  wench, 
Prattling  so  prettily  in  French, 
Or  dashing  off,  with  fingers  white, 
Gay  little  scraps  of  music  bright ; 
Merry  and  wicked,  and  not  wise, 
With  babies  dancing  in  her  eyes, 
Most  apt  at  quoting  saw  and  joke 
From  Shakespeare  and  less  famous  folk, 
Making  the  ignorant  listener  stare 
With  charming  mots  from  Moliere  ! 

But,  Kitty  Kemble,  'tis  not  given  to  me 
To  write  in  full  your  fair  biography. 
About  this  very  time  from  English  sight 
Your  pretty  little  figure  vanished  quite  ; 
And  dainty  rivals  came  and  conquered  here, 
And  the  false  world  forgot  you  quite,  I  fear. 

1  think  your  next  appearance  in  our  view 
Was  in  a  blaze  of  splendour  bright  and  new, 
When,  after  many  years  of  preparation, 
Provincial  trial,  trouble,  and  vexation, 
Out  you  emerged  on  the  astonish'd  City, 
The  town's  delight,  the  beaux',  the  critics', 

Kitty  ! 

The  brightest  wonder  human  eye  could  see 
In  good  old  Comedy  : 
A  smile,  a  voice,  a  lau^h,  a  look,  a  form, 
To  take  the  world  by  storm  ! 
A  dainty  dimpling  intellectual  treasure 
To  give  old  stagers  pleasure  ! 
A  rippling  radiant  cheek — a  roguish  eye — 
That  made  the  youngsters  sigh  ! 
And  thus  beneath  a  tinsel'd  pasteboard  Star 
At  once  you  mounted  your  triumphant  car, 


LONDON  POEMS. 


O'er  burning  hearts  your  chariot  wheels  were 

driven, 
Bouquets  came  rolling  down  like  rain  from 

heaven, 
And  on  we  dragged  you,  Kitty,  while  you 

stood 

Roguish  and  great,  not  innocent  and  good, 
The  Queen  Elect  of  all  Light  Womanhood  1 

Yes,  Kitty  Kemble,  let  the  preacher  cry 
His  word  of  '  Vanity,  O  Vanity  ! ' 
But  those,  I  think,  were  happy,  happy  days. 
Indeed,  yours  was  a  life  that  throve  with 

praise, 
And    brighten'd ;    passionate    and   eager ; 

made 
To  love  the  lamp-light  and  to  hate  the 

shade  ; 

To  play  with  happiness  and  drink  the  beam 
Till  it  suffused  your  substance  gleam  by 

gleam, 

Making  of  elements  past  your  control 
The  smiling  semblance  of  a  living  Soul. 
In  sooth,  you  were  a  summer  creature,  one 
Who  never  really  throve  save  in  the  sun  ; 
And  take  away  its  perfect  self-content, 
Your  very  beauty  grew  indifferent. 
Further,  you  did  not  crave  for  love  or  fame, 
Or  that  still  colder  shadow — a  good  name  ; 
You  were  not  even  avaricious  (tho* 
"Twas  sweet,  of  course,  to  see  the  guineas 

grow). 

Nay,  Kitty,  all  your  care  and  your  delight 
Was  to  gleam  past  upon  the  public  sight, 
To  gleam,  to  smile,  to  sparkle,  and  depart 
Ere  sympathy  could  reach  your  little  heart ; 
To  let  the  flaming  footlights  underneath 
Light  up  your  rouge,  whiten  your  spotless 

teeth, 

And  to  those  eyes,  so  luminous  and  bright, 
Dart  beams  of  glorious  artificial  light ; 
To  feel  your  bright  and  lissom  body  free 
In  brightly-hued  theatric  drapery  ; 
And  on  your  skin,  as  white  as  morning  milk, 
The  clinging  satin  and  the  slippery  silk. 
In  private  life  'twas  your  delight  to  be 
The  beauty  of  Bohemian  revelry  ; 
To  the  smart  little  literary  man 
Whispering  wicked  jests  behind  your  fan, 
And  not  at  all  too  nice  in  modesty 
As  to  reject  a  dinner  vis-a-vis 
At  Kew  or  Richmond,  freely  sipping  port 
With  hirsute  critics  of  the  heavier  sort, 


And  oft  enough  on  such  a  holiday 
Opening  at  last  your  own  small  purse  to 

pay! 
Beneath  your  beauty,  rouged,  and  ring'd, 

and  pearled, 
You  were  at  heart  the  woman  of  the  world, 
Not  quite  forgetting  yet  (tho'  well  content 
Quite  to  forget)  your  very  low  descent ; 
And   having   gained  your  little  life's   en- 
deavour, 

You  could,  I  know,  have  deemed  it  bliss 
for  ever. 

For  ever,  Kitty  Kemble  ?    Ah,  my  child ! 

(Surely  thou  art  a  child  at  last  ?) 
When  days  and  nights  are  glad  and  wild, 

They  whirl  the  quicklier  past ! 
To  Sorrow's  faintest  funeral  symphony 
Time  lingers  darken'd  steps  dejectedly 
With  sad  eyes  heavenward  ;  but  how  fleet 

he  flies 

When  Revel  sings  and  Mirth  doth  melo- 
dize ! 

Thy  merry  laughter  and  thy  gay  delight 
Quicken'd  the  Greybeard's  footsteps  day  and 

night, 

And  Kitty,  suddenly,  to  thy  surprise, 
The  cruel  crowsfeet  gather'd  'neath  thine 
eyes. 

But  paint  is  bright,    and    powder  pearly 

white, 

And  many  merry  years,  in  that  fierce  light 
Which  beats  on  thrones  and  faces  like  to 

thine, 

Thy  ways  were  witching  and  thy  lot  divine. 
Thy  life  was  surely  glad.    The  need  was 

fled 

Long  since  of  choosing  lovers  for  thy  bread 
Or  thine  advancement,  and  thou  now  wert 

free 

To  pick  at  will  thy  male  society. 
All  that  is  dark.     We  laymen  cannot  tell 
What  amatory  happiness  befell ; 
We  only  know  for  certain  Cupid's  dart 
Ne'er  struck  so  deadly  deep  into  thy  heart, 
As  to  befool  our  Kitty  into  passion 
Of  the  mad  vulgar  fashion. 
We  only  know  thou,  Kitty,  ever  wert 
Lightest  of  ladies,  delicate  and  pert, 
Clever  and  quick,  and  horribly  well  read. 
And  as  the  happy  seasons  o'er  thee  fled 
Thy  bust  swelled  out,  thy  body  fresh  and  fair 


KITTY  KEMBLE. 


171 


Grew  plumper,  and  thcu  didst  assume  thine 

air, 
Round,  roguish,  royal,  dazzling,  plump,  and 

good, 

Of  most  delicious  demi-matronhood. 
I  think  we  loved  thee  even  better  then 
Than  ever,  Kitty  ;  all  the  older  men, 
I    know,    adored    thee !    and    thou    wert 

supreme, 
Yea,   grand    above  all  modern    guess  or 

dream, 

In  wanton  Widows,  those  we  love  to  see 
In  unctuous  Shakespearian  comedy. 
Great  wast  thou  also,  Kitty,  great  and  true, 
As  the  bold  Beatrice  in  '  Much  Ado '  ; 
And  all  the  mighty  Town  went  raving  mad 
To  see  thy  '  Lady  Teazle.' 

Wild  and  glad 
Rolled  the  years  onward,   and    thy  little 

heart 

(Tho'  certainly  thy  stoniest,  toughest  part) 
Was   just  enough   at  least    to    act  with. 

Well! 

At  forty  summers  still  thy  fortune  fell 
On  pleasant  places  ;  for  a  little  yet 
The  fickle  British  public  loved  its  pet. 
True,  here  and  there,  thy  features,  still  so 

pretty, 
Were  sharpening  into  shrewish  lines,  my 

Kitty  ; 
And  nose  and  chin,  though  still  most  soft 

and  sweet, 
Seem'd  slowly  journeying  on  the  way  to 

meet! 

A  certain  shrillness  in  the  voice's  tone, 
Which  from  the  very  first  had  been  thine 

own, 

But  rather  pleased  the  ear  than  otherwise 
When  thou  hadst  fleeter  feet  and  younger 

eyes, 

Grew  harsher  and  more  harsh  upon  the  ear. 
Never,  indeed,  in  any  earlier  year 
Hadst  thou  performed  so  perfectly  as  now, 
And  yet  the  cruel  British  Critic's  brow 
Grew  cloudy.     Vain  were  trick  of  tone  or 

smile 

To  hide  the  artful,  artificial  style, 
The  superficial  tones,  the  airs  capricious, 
That  in  thy  younger  days  had  been  delicious. 
O  Kitty,  all  thy  being's  constant  pain 
To  win  the  heart  once  more  was  wholly  vain ; 
Most  vain,  most  piteous  !   Thy  familiar  airs 


Were  met  by  only  vacant  shrugs  and  stares, 
Thy  tricks,  thy  jokes,  thy  jests,  thy  wanton 

ways, 

Awakened  only  pity  and  amaze  ; 
And  presently,  when  thou  didst  rashly  try 
A  fair  young  pai  t,  as  in  the  days  gone  by, 
Down  on  thee  came  the  cruel  Critic's  blud- 
geon, 

Out  spoke  at  last  the  oracular  Curmudgeon, 
Hinting  out  openly,  in  accents  cold, 
That  thou  wert  passde,  past  thy  prime,  and 

old, 

The  ghost  of  loveliness  and  lightness,  fit 
To  play  old  women, — better  still  to  quit 
The  Stage  for  ever.  O  poor  thing  !  poor 

thing  ! 

The  cruel  knife  cut  deep  enough  to  bring 
The  sad  blood  from  your  very  heart  at  last; 
You  winced,  you  smirked,  you  struggled, 

and  at  last 

You  seem'd  to  triumph  ;  and  the  bitter  truth 
That  thou  hadst  spent  thy  previous  years 

of  youth 

Was  taken  home  indeed  to  thy  fair  breast, 
And  there,  like  to  a  very  viper's  nest, 
It  bred  and  flourish'd.    Kitty,  tho'  thy  face 
Was  merry  still  in  many  a  public  place, 
Thy  shrill  laugh  loud,  thy  manner  brazen 

bold, 

Black  was  thy  soul  and  piteously  cold. 
Anon  into  the  country  thou  didst  fare, 
And  spend  a  brighter,  happier  season  there; 
Bearing  about  with  thee  from  year  to  year 
The  shadow  of  thine  earlier  triumphs  here. 
That  passed,  like  all  the  rest.     Ah  me  !  ah 

me! 

Even  the  provinces  deserted  thee, 
As  we  had  done  ;  so  our  poor  Kitty  came 
To  be  the  lonely  ghost  of  a  great  name — 
A  worn  and  wanton  woman,  not  yet  sage 
Nor  wearied  out,  tho'  sixty  years  of  age, 
Wrinkled  and  rouged,  and  with  false  teeth 

of  pearl, 

And  the  shrill  laughter  of  a  giddy  girl ; 
Haunting,  with  painted  cheek  and  powder'd 

brow, 

The  private  boxes,  as  spectator  now  ; 
Poth  day  and  night,  indeed,  invited  out 
To  private  picnic  and  to  public  rout, 
Because  thy  shrill  laugh  and  thy  ready  joke 
Ever  enlivened  up  the  festal  folk  ; 
Nor  did  such  people  woo  thy  service  less 
Because  of  tales  of  thy  past  wickedness 


172 


LONDON  POEMS. 


Oh,  thou  wert  very  clever,  keen,  and  bright, 
Most  gay,  most  scandal-loving,  and  most 

light ! 

Still  greatly  given  to  French  literature, 
And  foreign  feuilletons  not  over  pure  ; 
Still  highly  rouging  up  thy  cheek  so  dead 
Into  a  ghostly  gleam  of  rosy  red  : 
Still  ever  ready  talking  with  a  man, 
To  tap  his  naughty  knuckles  with  thy  fan 
Coquettishly,  and  meanwhile  with  thy  dim 
Yet  lustrous  eyes  to  smile  and  ogle  him  ! 
Yet  ever  with  a  lurking  secret  sense 
Of  thine  own  beauty's  utter  impotence, 
With  hungry  observation  all  the  while 
To  catch  the  covert  sneer  or  lurking  smile — 
A  helpless  fear,  a  pang,  a  sharp  distress, 
Curdling  thy  choicest  mirth  to  bitterness. 

Sad  years,  my  child,  sad  years  of  lonely 

gloom  ! 

Nor  let  the  hasty  Moralist  assume 
Neglect  and  age  and  agony  could  be 
GOD'S  ruthless  instruments  to  chasten  thee. 
Nay,  Kitty  Kemble,  tho'  thy  spirit  grew 
Still  bitterer  as  the  seasons  flash'd  and  flew, 
Thy  bright  face  ne'er  one  moment  turned 

away 

From  the  glad  gaudy  world  of  every  day. 
I  know  religion  never  moved  thy  thought, 
Comfort  in  God   was   neither  found  nor 

sought. 

Still  thou  wert  happiest,  happiest  and  best 
By  the  old  gaslight,  rouged  and  gaily  drest. 
At  each  new  play  thy  well-known  face  was 

seen, 

Merry  and  quick,  yet  hiding  secret  spleen  ; 
At  each  new  brilliant  debutante's  success 
Thy  soul  did  wince  for  very  bitterness  ; — 
And  all  the  taste  of  thy  departed  power 
Was  gall  and  wormwood  on  thy  soul  each 

hour  ; 

And  never,  Kitty,  till  thy  latest  breath, 
Didst  thou  remember  God,  the  Soul,  and 

Death. 

Yet  very  quietly,  one  wintry  day, 

Death's  pale  and  unseen  footsteps  past  thy 

way, 

And  as  Death  swiftly  sail'd  upon  the  air, 
He  lightly  breathed  one  breath  upon  thee 

there 

As  a  reminder  ; — after  that  thy  face 
Changed  very  strangely  ;    shrivell'd  in  its 

place  ; 


One  helpless  eyelid  fluttered,  and  thy  faint 
Dark    cheek    contracted    underneath     thy 

paint : 
And  after  that  same  day  thy  speech  was 

ne'er 
Quite  constant  to  thy  thought,  or  wholly 

clear  ; 
And  ev'n  thy  very  thought  at  times  would 

seem 
Suddenly  to  dissolve  away  in  dream  ! 

Yet,  Kitty  Kemble,  to  the  last  we  found 

thee 
Constant  to  the  old  haunts  of  life  around 

thee, 

Still  in  the  public  gaslight  thou  wert  seen, 
Tho'  now  upon  a  staff  compelled  to  lean, 
Thine  eyes  still  black  and  quick,  thy  tones 

and  words 
Still  gay,   thy  laugh  shrill  as  a  mocking 

bird's ! 

Ah  !  but  I  think  thy  heavenly  Sire  was  near 
His  daughter's  dwelling-place  at  last,  my 

dear! 

That  quiet  day  I  looked  upon  thee  last, 
I  had  called   at  midday  as   thy   porch  I 

passed, 
Found  thee  '  from  home,'  and  past  the  quiet 

door 

Away  was  turning,  when,  from  the  first  floor, 
Thy  quick  voice  called  me  ;  and  upstairs  I 

went, 

To  find  my  lady  lying  indolent, 
Pillow'd  in  state  upon  her  stately  bed, 
A  pretty  ribbon'd  night-cap  on  her  head, 
While  on  her  hollow  cheeks    false  hectic 

bloom 
Strange  shade  fell  sadly  from  the  darken'd 

room. 

And  there  upon  thy  pillow,  partly  read, 
Feydeau's  last    fever-piece;    around    thee 

spread 
Old  playbills,  pink  and  yellow,  white  and 

green, 

Whereon  in  mighty  capitals  was  seen 
Thine  own  triumphant  name.     Alas  !  alas  ! 
Shall  I  forget  till  life  and  memory  pass 
Thy  look  of  blended  pleasure,  pride,  and 

pain, 

Thy  eager  laughter,  garrulous  and  vain, 
Thy  tremulous,  feverish  voice  and  fretful 

glee, 
As  thou  didst  prattle,  pointing  out  to  me, 


KITTY  KEMBLE—THE  SWALLOWS. 


173 


With  a  lean,  palsied  finger,  dead  and  cold, 

Thy  mighty  triumphs  in  the  days  of  old? 

And  suddenly  (my  child,  shall  I  forget? — 

The  voice,  the  tone,  the  look,  all  linger 
yet!) 

The  feverish  emotion  grew  too  much  ; 

And  with  a  passionate,  spasmodic  clutch, 

Thou  didst  against  my  shoulder  wildly  press 

Thy  cheek,  once  warm  with  life  and  loveli- 
ness, 

And  moaning  madly  over  thy  lost  years 

Hysterically  break  to  bitterest  tears  ! 

What  comfort  could  I  give  ?  ere,  once  more 
gay, 

Thou  with  light  hand  didst  sweep  the  tears 
away, 

And  break,  with  fretful  wish  and  eager  will, 

To  laughter  sadder  still ; 

Prattling,  in  thy  most  artificial  tone, 

Words  to  make  Angels  moan  ! 

And  here 's  the  end  of  all.     And  on  thy  bed 
Thou  liest,  Kitty  Kemble,  lone  and  dead  ; 
And  on   thy  clammy  cheek  there  lingers 

faint 
The  deep  dark  stain  of  a  life's  rouge  and 

paint ; 

And,  Kitty,  all  thy  sad  days  and  thy  glad 
Have  left  thee  lying  for  thy  last  part  clad, 
Cold,  silent,  on  the  earthly  Stage  ;  and 

while 
Thou  liest  there  with  dark  and  dreadful 

smile, 
The  feverish  footlights  of  the  World  flash 

bright 

Into  thy  face  with  a  last  L  hastly  light  ; 
And  while  thy  friends  all  sighing  rise  to  go, 
The  great  black  Curtain  droppeth,   slow, 

slow,  slow. 

God  help  us  !  We  spectators  turn  away  ; 
Part  sad,  we  think,  part  merry,  was  the 

Play. 

God  help  the  lonely  player  now  she  stands 
Behind  the  darken'd  scenes  with  wondering 

face, 
And  gropes  her  way  at  last,  with  clay-cold 

hands, 

Out  of  the  dingy  place, 
Turning  towards   Home,  poor  worn  and 

weary  one, 
Now  the  last  scene  is  done. 


THE  SWALLOWS. 


O  CHURCHYARD  in  the  city's  gloom, 

What  charm  to  please  hast  thou, 
That,  seated  on  a  broken  tomb, 

I  muse  so  oft,  as  now? 
The  dreary  autumn  wind  goes  murmuring 

by, 

And  in  the  distant  streets  the  ragged  urchins 
cry. 

Thou  boldest  in  thy  sunless  land 
Nought  I  have  seen  or  known, 
No  lips  I  ever  kissed,  no  hand 

That  ever  clasped  mine  own  ; 
And  all  is  still  and  dreary  to  the  eye, — 
The  broken  tombs,  dark  walls,  roofed  by  a 
sunless  sky. 

Now  to  the  murmur  that  mine  ears 

Catch  from  the  distant  lanes, 
Dimming  mine  eyes  with  dreamy  tears, 

Slow,  low,  my  heart  refrains  ; 
And  the  live  grass  creeps  up  from  thy  dead 

bones, 

And  crawls,  with  slimy  stains,  over  thy  gray 
gravestones. 

The  cries  keep  on,  the  minutes  pass, 

Mine  eyes  are  on  the  ground, 
The  silent  many-fingered  grass 

Winds  round,  and  round,  and  round  : 
I  seem  to  see  it  live,  and  stir,  and  wind, 
And  gaze,  until  a  weight  is  heavy  on  my 
mind. 


O  Churchyard  in  the  shady  gloom, 
What  charm  to  please  hast  thou, 
That,  seated  on  a  broken  tomb, 

I  muse  so  oft,  as  now  ? 
Haply  because  I  learn,  with  sad  content, 
How  small  a  thing  can  make  the  whole 
world  different ! 

Among  the  gravestones  worn  and  old, 

A  sad  sweet  hour  I  pass, 
Where  thickest  from  thy  sunless  mould 

Upsprings  the  sickly  grass  ; 


J74 


LONDON  POEMS. 


For,  though  the  earth  holds  no  sweet  smell- 
ing flower, 

The  Swallows  build  their  nests  up  in  thy 
square  gray  tower. 

While,  burthened  by  the  life  we  bear, 

The  dull  and  creeping  woe, 
The  mystery,  the  pain,  the  care, 

I  watch  thy  grasses  grow, 
Sighing,  I  look  to  the  dull  autumn  skies, 
And,  lo  !  my  heart  is  cheered,  and  tears  are 
in  mine  eyes. 

For  here,   where    stillness,    death,   and 

dream, 

Brood  above  creeping  things, 
Over  mine  eyes  with  quick  bright  gleam 

Shine  little  flashing  wings. 
And  a  strange  comfort  takes  thy  shady  air, 
And  the  deep  life  I  breathe  seems  sweetened 
unaware  1 


TOM  DUNS  TAN;    OR,    THE 
POLITICIAN. 

'How  long,  O  Lord,  how  long?' 


Now  poor  Tom  Dunstan's  cold, 

Our  shop  is  duller  ; 
Scarce  a  tale  is  told, 
And  our  talk  has  lost  its  old 

Red-republican  colour  ! 
Though  he  was  sickly  and  thin, 

'Twas  a  sight  to  see  his  face, — 
While,  sick  of  the  country's  sin, 
With  bang  of  the  fist,  and  chin 

Thrust  out,  he  argued  the  case ! 
He  prophesied  men  should  be  free  ! 

And  the  money-bags  be  bled  ! 
'  She's  coming,  she's  coming  ! '  said  he 
'  Courage,  boys  !  wait  and  see  ! 

Freedom  "s  ahead  ! ' 

n. 

All  day  we  sat  in  the  heat, 

Like  spiders  spinning, 
Stitching  full  fine  and  fleet, 
While  old  Moses  on  his  seat 

Sat  greasily  grinning ; 


And  here  Tom  said  his  say, 

And  prophesied  Tyranny's  death  ; 
And  the  tallow  burned  all  day, 
And  we  stitch'd  and  stitch'd  away 

In  the  thick  smoke  of  our  breath. 
Weary,  weary  were  we, 

Our  hearts  as  heavy  as  lead  ; 
But  '  Patience  !  she's  coming  ! '  said  he  ; 
1  Courage,  boys  !  wait  and  see  ! 

Freedom  's  ahead  ! ' 

in. 

And  at  night,  when  we  took  here 

The  rest  allowed  to  us, 
The  Paper  came,  with  the  beer, 
And  Tom  read,  sharp  and  clear, 

The  news  out  loud  to  us  ; 
And  then,  in  his  witty  way, 

He  threw  the  jests  about  : 
The  cutting  things  he'd  say 
Of  the  wealthy  and  the  gay  ! 

How  he  turn'd  'em  inside  out ! 
And  it  made  our  breath  more  free 

To  hearken  to  what  he  said — 
'  She's  coming  !  she's  coming  ! '  said  he 
'  Courage,  boys  !  wait  and  see ! 

Freedom  's  ahead  1 ' 

IV. 

But  grim  Jack  Hart,  with  a  sneer, 

Would  mutter,  '  Master  ! 
If  Freedom  means  to  appear, 
I  think  she  might  step  here 

A  little  faster  ! ' 
Then,  'twas  fine  to  see  Tom  flame, 

And  argue,  and  prove,  and  preach, 
Till  Jack  was  silent  for  shame, — 
Or  a  fit  of  coughing  came 

O'  sudden,  to  spoil  Tom's  speech. 
Ah  !  Tom  had  the  eyes  to  see 

When  Tyranny  should  be  sped  : 
'  She's  coming  !  she's  coming  ! '  said  he 
1  Courage,  boys  !  wait  and  see  1 

Freedom  's  ahead ! ' 

v. 
But  Tom  was  little  and  weak, 

The  hard  hours  shook  him  ; 
Hollower  grew  his  cheek, 
And  when  he  began  to  speak 

The  coughing  took  him. 
Ere  long  the  cheery  sound 

Of  his  chat  among  us  ceased, 


TOM  DUNSTAN;   OR,    THE  POLITICIAN- O^MURTOGH.      175 


And  we  made  a  purse,  all  round, 
That  he  might  not  starve,  at  least. 

His  pain  was  sorry  to  see, 
Yet  there,  on  his  poor  sick-bed, 

'  She's  coming,  in  spite  of  me  ! 

Courage,  and  wait ! '  cried  he  ; 
'  Freedom  's  ahead  ! ' 

VI. 

A  little  before  he  died, 

To  see  his  passion  ! 
'  Bring  me  a  Paper  ! '  he  cried, 
And  then  to  study  it  tried, 

In  his  old  sharp  fashion  ; 
And  with  eyeballs  glittering, 

His  look  on  me  he  bent, 
And  said  that  savage  thing 

Of  the  Lords  o'  the  Parliament. 
Then,  dying,  smiling  on  me, 
'  What  matter  if  one  be  dead  ? 
She's  coming  at  last ! '  said  he  ; 
'  Courage,  boy  !  wait  and  see  ; 

Freedom  's  ahead ! ' 

VII. 
Ay,  now  Tom  Dunstan's  cold, 

The  shop  feels  duller  ; 
Scarce  a  tale  is  told, 
And  our  talk  has  lost  the  old 

Red-republican  colour. 
But  we  see  a  figure  gray, 

And  we  hear  a  voice  of  death, 
And  the  tallow  burns  all  day, 
And  we  stitch  and  stitch  away 

In  the  thick  smoke  of  our  breath  ; 
Ay,  while  in  the  dark  sit  we, 

Tom  seems  to  call  from  the  dead — 
'  She's  coming  !  she's  coming  ! '  says  he 
'  Courage,  boys  !  wait  and  see  ! 

Freedom  's  ahead  ! ' 


How  long,  O  Lord  !  how  long 

Must  thy  Handmaid  linger — 
She  who  shall  right  the  wrong, 
Make  the  poor  sufferer  strong  ? 

Sweet  morrow,  bring  her  ! 
Hasten  her  over  the  sea, 

O  Lord !  ere  Hope  be  fled  ! 
Bring  her  to  men  and  to  me  !  ... 
O  Slave,  pray  still  on  thy  knee, 

'  FREEDOM  's  ahead! ' 


O^MURTOGH. 
(NEWGATE,  18— ) 

1  It's  a  sight  to  see  a  bold  man  die  !' 

TO-NIGHT  we  drink  but  a  sorrowful  cup  .  . 
Hush  !  silence  !  and  fill  your  glasses  up. 
Christ  be  with  us  !     Hold  out  and  say  : 
'  Here's  to  the  Boy  that  died  this  day  ! ' 

Wasn't  he  bold  as  the  boldest  here? 
Red  coat  or  black  did  he  ever  fear  ? 
With  the  bite  and  the  drop,  too,  ever  free  ? 
He  died  like  a  man.  ...  I  was  there  to  see  ! 

The  gallows  was  black,   our  cheeks  were 

white 

All  underneath  in  the  morning  light ; 
The  bell  ceased  tolling  swift  as  thought, 
And  out  the  murdered  Boy  was  brought. 

There  he  stood  in  the  daylight  dim, 
With  a  Priest  on  either  side  of  him  ; 
Each  Priest  look'd  white  as  he  held  his  book, 
But  the  man  between  had  a  brighter  look  ! 

Over  the  faces  below  his  feet 
His  gray  eye  gleam'd  so  keen  and  fleet  : 
He  saw  us  looking  ;  he  smiled  his  last .  .  . 
He  couldn't  wave,  he  was  pinioned  fast. 

This  was  more  than  one  could  bear, 

For  the  lass  who  loved  him  was  with  us 

there ; 

She  stood  in  the  rain  with  her  dripping  shawl 
Over  her  head,  for  to  see  it  all. 

But  when  she  met  the  Boy's  last  look, 
Her  lips  went  white,  she  turned  and  shook  ; 
She  didn't  scream,  she  didn't  groan, 
But  down  she  dropt  as  dead  as  stone. 

He  saw  the  stir  in  the  crowd  beneath, 
And  I  saw  him  tremble  and  set  his  teeth  ; 
But  the  hangman  came  with  a  knavish  grace 
And  drew  the  nightcap  over  his  face. 

Then  I  saw  the  Priests,  who  still  stood  near, 
Pray  faster  and  faster  to  hide  their  fear  ; 
They  closed  their  eyes,  I  closed  mine  too. 
And  the  deed  was  over  before  I  knew. 


LONDON  POEMS. 


The  crowd  that  stood  all  round  of  me 
Gave  one  dark  plunge  like  a  troubled  sea  ; 
And  I  knew  by  that  the  deed  was  done, 
And  I  opened  my  eyes  and  saw  the  sun. 

The  gallows  was  black,  the  sun  was  white, 
There  he  hung,  half  hid  from  sight  ; 
The  sport  was  over,  the  talk  grew  loud, 
And  they  sold  their  wares  to  the  mighty 
crowd. 

We  walked  away  with  our  hearts  full  sore, 
And  we  met  a  hawker  before  a  door, 
With  a  string  of  papers  an  arm's-length  long, 
A  dying  speech  and  a  gallows  song. 

It  bade  all  people  of  poor  estate 
Bsware  of  O'Murtogh's  evil  fate  ; 
It  told  how  in  old  Ireland's  name 
He   had   done  red  murther  and  come  to 
shame. 

Never  a  word  was  sung  or  said 

Of  the  murder'd  mother,  a  ditch  her  bed, 

Who   died  with  her  newborn    babe   that 

night, 
While  the  blessed  cabin  was  burning  bright. 

Nought  was  said  of  the  years  of  pain, 
The  starving  stomach,  the  madden' d  brain, 
The  years  of  sorrow  and  want  and  toil, 
And  the  murdering  rent  for  the  bit  of  soil. 

Nought  was  said  of  the  murther  done 
On  man  and  woman  and  little  one, 
Of  the  bitter  sorrow  and  daily  smart 
Till  he  put  cold  lead  in  the  traitor's  heart. 

But  many  a  word  had  the  speech  beside  : 
How  he  repented  before  he  died  ; 
How,  brought  to  sense  by  the  sad  event, 
He  prayed  for  the  Queen  and  the  Parlia- 
ment! 

What  did  we  do,  and  mighty  quick, 
But  tickle  that  hawker's  brains  with  a  stick; 
And  to  pieces  small  we  tore  his  flam, 
And  left  him  quiet  as  any  lamb  ! 

Pass  round  your  glasses  !  now  lift  them  up! 
Powers  above,  'tis  a  bitter  cup  ! 
Christ  be  with  us  !     Hold  out  and  say  : 
1  Here's  to  the  Boy  that  died  this  day  ! ' 


Here's  his  health  !— for  bold  he  died  ; 
Here's  his  health  ! — and  it's  drunk  in  pride: 
The  finest  sight  beneath  the  sky 
Is  to  see  how  bravely  a  MAN  can  die. 


THE  BOOKWORM. 

WITH  spectacles  upon  his  nose, 

He  shuffles  up  and  down  ; 
Of  antique  fashion  are  his  clothes, 

His  napless  hat  is  brown. 
A  mighty  watch,  of  silver  wrought, 

Keeps  time  in  sun  or  rain 
To  the  dull  ticking  of  the  thought 

Within  his  dusty  brain. 

To  see  him  at  the  bookstall  stand 

And  bargain  for  the  prize, 
With  the  odd  sixpence  in  his  hand 

And  greed  in  his  gray  eyes  ! 
Then,   conquering,   grasp    the  book    hall 
blind, 

And  take  the  homeward  track, 
For  fear  the  man  should  change  his  mind, 

And  want  the  bargain  back  ! 

The  waves  of  life  about  him  beat, 

He  scarcely  lifts  his  gaze, 
He  hears  within  the  crowded  street 

The  wash  of  ancient  days. 
If  ever  his  short-sighted  eyes 

Look  forward,  he  can  see 
Vistas  of  dusty  Libraries 

Prolonged  eternally. 

But  think  not  as  he  walks  along 

His  brain  is  dead  and  cold  ; 
His  soul  is  thinking  in  the  tongue 

Which  Plato  spake  of  old  ; 
And  while  some  grinning  cabman  sees 

His  quaint  shape  with  a  jeer, 
He  smiles, — for  Aristophanes 

Is  joking  in  his  ear. 

Around  him  stretch  Athenian  walks, 

And  strange  shapes  under  trees  ; 
He  pauses  in  a  dream  and  talks 

Great  speech,  with  Socrates. 
Then,  as  the  fancy  fails — still  mesh'd 

In  thoughts  that  go  and  come — 
Feels  in  his  pouch,  and  is  refresh'd 

At  touch  of  some  old  tome. 


THE  BOOKWORM-TP1E  LAST  OF   THE  HANGMEN. 


177 


The  mighty  world  of  humankind 

Is  as  a  shadow  dim, 
He  walks  through  life  like  one  half  blind, 

And  all  looks  dark  to  him  ; 
But  put  his  nose  to  leaves  antique, 

And  hold  before  his  sight 
Some  press'd  and  withered  flowers  of  Greek, 

And  all  is  life  and  light. 

A  blessing  on  his  hair  so  gray, 

And  coat  of  dingy  brown  ! 
May  bargains  bless  him  every  day, 

As  he  goes  up  and  down  ; 
Long  may  the  bookstall-keeper's  face, 

In  dull  times,  smile  again, 
To  see  him  round  with  shuffling  pace 

The  corner  of  the  lane  ! 

A  good  old  Ragpicker  is  he, 

Who,  following  morn  and  eve 
The  quick  feet  of  Humanity, 

Searches  the  dust  they  leave. 
He  pokes  the  dust,  he  sifts  with  care, 

He  searches  close  and  deep  ; 
Proud  to  discover,  here  and  there, 

A  treasure  in  the  heap  ! 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  HANGMEN. 

A  GROTESQUE. 

What  place  is  snugger  and  more  pretty 
Than  a  gay  green  Inn  outside  the  City, 
To  sit  in  an  arbour  in  a  garden, 
With  a  pot  of  ale  and  a  long  churchwarden  ! 

Amid  the  noise  and  acclamation, 

He  sits  unknown,  in  meditation  : 

'Mid  church-bells  ringing,  jingling  glasses, 

Snugly  enough  his  Sunday  passes. 

BEYOND  the  suburbs  of  the  City,  where 
Cheap  stucco'd  villas    on  the    brick-field 

stare, 
Where  half   in    town,    half  country,    you 

espy 

The  hay-cart  standing  at  the  hostelry, — 
Strike  from  the  highway  down  a  puddly 

lane, 
Skirt    round    a    market-garden,   and    you 

gain 

A  pastoral  footpath,  winding  on  for  miles 
By  fair  green  fields  and  over  country  stiles  ; 


And  soon,  as  you  proceed,  the  busy  sound 
Of  the  dark  City  at  your  back  is  drowned, 
The  speedwell  with  its  blue  eye  looks  at 

you, 
The  yellow  primrose  glimmers  through  the 

dew  ; 

Out  of  the  sprouting  hedgerow  at  your  side, 
Instead  of  the  town  sparrow  starveling-eyed, 
The  blackbird  whistles  and  the  finches  sing; 
Instead  of  smoke,  you  breathe  the  pleasant 

Spring  ; 
And  shading  eyes  dim  from  street  dust  you 

mark, 

With  soft  pulsations  soaring  up,  the  LARK, 
Till  o'er  your  head,  a  speck  against  the 

gleam, 
He  sings,  and  the  great  City  fades  in  dream ! 


Five  miles  the  path  meanders  ;  then  again 
You  reach  the  road,  but  like  a  leafy  lane 
It  wanders  now  ;  and  lo  !  you  stand  before 
A  quaint  old  country  Inn,  with  open  door, 
Fresh-watered  troughs,  and  the  sweet  smell 
of  hay. 

And  if,  perchance,  it  be  the  seventh  day — 
Or  any  feast-day,  calendar'd  or  not — 
Merry  indeed  will  be  this  smiling  spot ; 
For  on  the  neighbouring  common  will  be 

seen 
Groups  from   the   City,   romping  on    the 

green  ; 
The  vans  with  gay  pink  curtains  empty 

stand, 

The  horses  graze  unharness'd  close  at  hand; 
Bareheaded  wenches  play  at  games  in  rings, 
Or,  strolling,  swing  their  bonnets  by  the 

strings  ; 

'Prentices,  galloping  with  gasp  and  groan, 
On  donkeys  ride,   till    out  of  breath,    or 

thrown  ; 
False  gipsies,   with  pale  cheeks  by  juice 

stain'd  brown, 
And  hulking  loungers,   gather    from    the 

town. 
The  fiddle  squeaks,  they  dance,  they  sing, 

they  play, 

Waifs  from  the  City  casting  care  away, 
And  with  the  country  smells  and  sights  are 

blent 

Loud  town-bred  oaths  and  urban  merri- 
ment. 

N 


LONDON  POEMS. 


Ay ;  and  behind  the  Inn  are  gardens 
green, 

And  arbours  snug,  where  families  are  seen 

Tea-drinking  in  the  shadow  ;  some,  glad 
souls, 

On  the  smooth-shaven  carpet  play  at  bowls ; 

And  half-a-dozen,  rowing  round  and  round, 

Upon  the  shallow  skating-pond  are  found, 

And  ever  and  anon  will  one  of  these 

Upset,  and  stand  there,  wading  to  the 
knees, 

Righting  his  crank  canoe !  Down  neigh- 
bouring walks 

Go  'prentice  lovers  in  delightful  talks  ; 

While  from  the  arbour-seats  smile  plea- 
santly 

The  older  members  of  the  company  ; 

And  plump  round  matrons  sweat  in  Paisley 
shawls, 

And  on  the  grass  the  crowing  baby  sprawls. 

Now  hither,  upon  such  a  festal  day, 
I  from  my  sky-high  lodging  made  my  way, 
<\nd  followed  straggling  feet  with  summer 

smile  ; 
'Jog  on,'  I  sung,    'and  merrily  hent  the 

stile,' 

Until  I  reached  the  place  of  revelry  ; 
And  there,  hard  by  the  groups  who  sat  at 

tea, 

But  in  a  quiet  arbour,  cool  and  deep, 
Around  whose  boughs  white  honeysuckles 

creep, 

A  Face  I  saw  familiar  to  my  gaze, 
In  scenes  far  different  and  on  darker  days: — 
An  aged  man,  with  white  and  reverent  hair, 
Brow  patriarchal  yet  deep-lined  with  care, 
His  melancholy  eye,  in  a  half  dream, 
Watching    the    groups    with     philosophic 


Decent  his  dress,  of  broadcloth  black  and 

clean, 
Clean-starch'd  his  front,  and  dignified  his 

mien. 

His  right  forefinger  busy  in  the  bowl 
Of  a  long  pipe  of  clay,  whence  there  did  roll 
A  halo  of  gray  vapour  round  his  face, 
He  sat,  like  the  wise  Genius  of  the  place  ; 
And  at  his  left  hand  on  the  table  stood 
A  pewter-pot,  filled  up  with  porter  good, 
Which  ever  and  anon,  with  dreamy  gaze 
And  arm-sweep  proud,  he  to  his  lips  did 

raise. 


'Twas  Sunday  ;  and  in  melancholy  swells 
Came  the  low  music  of  the  soft  church-bells, 
Scarce  audible,  blown  o'er  the  meadows 

green, 

Out  of  the  cloud  of  London  dimly  seen — 
Whence,    thro'   the  summer  mist,    at  in- 
tervals, 
We  caught  the  far-off  shadow  of  St.  Paul's. 

Silent  he  sat,  unnoted  in  the  crowd, 
With  all  his  greatness  round  him  like  a 

cloud, 

Unknown,  unwelcomed,  unsuspected  quite, 
Smoking  his  pipe  like  any  common  wight ; 
Cheerful,  yet  distant,  patronising  here 
The  common  gladness  from  his  prouder 

sphere. 
Cold  was  his  eye,  and  ominous  now  and 

then 

The  look  he  cast  upon  those  merry  men 
Around  him  ;  and,  from  time  to  time,  sad- 
eyed, 
He  rolled  his  reverent  head  from  side  to 

side 
With  dismal  shake  ;  and,  his  sad  heart  to 

cheer, 
Hid  his  great  features  in  the  pot  of  beer. 

When,  with  an  easy  bow  and  lifted  hat, 
I  enter' d  the  green  arbour  where  he  sat, 
And  most  politely  him  by  name  did  greet, 
He  went  as  white  as  any  winding-sheet ! 
Yea,  trembled  like  a  man  whose  lost  eyes 

note 

A  pack  of  wolves  uplc  aping  at  his  throat ! 
But  when,  in  a  respectful  tone  and  kind, 
I    tried  to  lull   his  fears  and  soothe  his 

mind, 

And  vowed  the  fact  of  his  identity 
Was  as  a  secret  wholly  safe  with  me — 
Explaining  also,  seeing  him  demur, 
That  /  too  was  a  public  character — 
The  GREAT  UNKNOWN  (as  I  shall  call  him 

here) 

Grew  calm,  replenish'd  soon  his  pot  of  beer 
At  my  expense,  and  in  a  little  while 
His  tongue  began  to  wag,  his  face  to  smile; 
And  in  the  simple  self-revealing  mode 
Of  all  great  natures  heavy  with  the  load 
Of  pride  and  power,  he  edged  himself  more 

near, 
And  poured  his  griefs  and  wrongs  into  mine 

ear. 


THE  LAST  OF   THE  HANGMEN. 


179 


1  Well  might  I  be  afraid,  and  sir  to  you  ! 
They  'd  tear  me  into  pieces  if  they  knew, — 
For  quiet  as  they  look,  and  bright,  and 

smart, 

Each  chap  there  has  a  tiger  in  his  heart  ! 
At  play  they  are,  but  wild  beasts  all  the 

same — 
Not  to  be  teased  although  they  look  so 

tame ; 

And  many  of  them,  plain  as  eye  can  trace, 
Have  got  my  'scutcheon  figured  on  the  face. 
It 's  all  a  matter  of  mere  destiny 
Whether  they  go  all  right  or  come  to  me  : 
Mankind  is  bad,  sir,  naturally  bad  ! ' 

And  as  he  shook  his  head  with  omen  sad, 
I  answered  him,  in  his  own  cynic  strain  : 

1  Yes,  't  is  enough  to  make  a  man  com- 
plain. 

This  world  of  ours  so  vicious  is  and  low, 
It  always  treats  its  Benefactors  so. 
If  people  had  their  rights,  and  rights  were 

clear, 
You  would  not  sit  unknown,  unhonour'd, 

here  ; 
But  all  would  bow  to  you,  and  hold  you 

great, 
The  first  and  mightiest  member    of    the 

State. 

Who  is  the  inmost  wheel  of  the  machine  ? 
Who  keeps  the   Constitution   sharp    and 

clean  ? 

Who  finishes  what  statesmen  only  plan, 
And  keeps  the  whole  game  going  ?    You  're 

the  Man  ! 

At  one  end  of  the  State  the  eye  may  view 
Her  Majesty,  and  at  the  other— you  ; 
And  of  the  two,  both  precious,  I  aver, 
They  seem  more  ready  to  dispense  with 

her!' 

The  Great  Man  watched  me  with  a  solemn 

look, 

Then  from  his  lips  the  pipe  he  slowly  took, 
And  answered  gruffly,  in  a  whisper  hot : 

'  I  don't  know  if  you  're  making  game  or 

not ! 
But,  dash  my  buttons,  though  you  put  it 

strong, 
It's  my  opinion  you're  more  right  than 

wrong ! 


There 's  not  a'nother  man  this  side  the  sea 
Can  settle  off  the  State's  account  like  me. 
The  work  from  which  all  other  people 

shrink 

Comes  natural  to  me  as  meat  and  drink,— 
All  neat,  all  clever,  all  perform'd  so  pat, 
It 's  quite  an  honour  to  be  hung  like  that  ! 
People  don't  howl  and  bellow  when  they 

meet 

The  Sheriff  or  the  Gaoler  in  the  street ; 
They  never  seem  to  long  in  their  mad  fits 
To  tear  the  Home  Secretary  into  bits  ; 
When  Judges  in  white  hats  to  Epsom  Down 
Drive  gay  as  Tom  and  Jerry,   folk  don't 

frown  ; 

They  cheer  the  Queen  and  Royal  Family, 
But  only  let  them  catch  a  sight  of  me, 
And  like  a  pack  of  hounds  they  howl  and 

storm ! 

And  that 's  their  gratitude  ;   'cause  I  per- 
form, 

In  genteel  style  and  in  a  first-rate  way, 
The  work  they're  making  for  me  night  and 

day! 

Why,  if  a  mortal  had  his  rights,  d'  ye  see, 
I  should  be  honour'd  as  I  ought  to  be— 
They  'd  pay  me  well  for  doing  what  I  do, 
And  touch  their  hats  whene'er  I  came  in 

view. 

Well,  after  all,  they  do  as  they  are  told  ; 
They  're  less  to  blame  than  Government,  I 

hold. 

Government  sees  my  value,  and  it  knows 
I  keep  the  whole  game  going  as  it  goes, 
And  yet  it  holds  me  down  and  makes  me 

cheap, 

And  calls  me  in  at  odd  times  like  a  sweep 
To  clean  a  dirty  chimney.     Let  it  smoke, 
And  every  mortal  in  the  State  must  choke  ! 
And    yet,    though    always    ready    at    the 

call, 

I  get  no  gratitude,  no  thanks  at  all. 
Instead  of  rank,  I  get  a  wretched  fee, 
Instead  of  thanks,  a  sneer  or  scowl  may-be, 
Instead  of  honour  such  as  others  win, 
Why,  I  must  hide  away  to  save  my  skin. 
When  I  am  sent  for  to  perform  my  duty, 
Instead  of  coming  in  due  state  and  beauty, 
With  outriders  and  dashing  grays  to  draw 
Like  any  other  mighty  man  of  law), 
Disguised,    unknown,    and    with  a   guilty 

cheek, 
The  gaol  I  enter  like  an  area  sneak ! 


i8o 


LONDON  POEMS. 


And  when  all  things  have  been  perform'd 

with  art 
(With  my  young  man  to  do  the  menial 

part) 

Again  out  of  the  dark,  when  none  can  see, 
I  creep  unseen  to  my  obscurity ! ' 

His  vinous  cheek  with  virtuous  wrath  was 

flushed, 

And  to  his  nose  the  purple  current  rushed, 
While  with  a  hand  that  shook  a  little  now, 
He  mopp'd  the  perspiration  from  his  brow, 
Sighing  ;  and  on  his  features  I  descried 
A  sparkling  tear  of  sorrow  and  of  pride. 
Meantime,  around  him  all  was  mirth  and 

May, 
The  sport  was  merry  and  all  hearts  were 

gay. 

The  green  boughs  sparkled  back  the  merri- 
ment, 

The  garden  honeysuckle  scatter'd  scent, 
The  warm  girls  giggled  and    the    lovers 

squeezed, 
The  matrons   drinking  tea  look'd  on  full 

pleased. 

And  far  away  the  church-bells  sad  and  slow 
Ceased  on  the  scented  air.  But  still  the 

woe 
Grew  on  the  Great  Man's  face — the  smiling 

sky, 

The  light,  the  pleasure,  on  his  fish-like  eye 
Fell  colourless  ; — at  last  he  spoke  again, 
Growing  more  philosophic  in  his  pain  : 

•Two  sorts  of   people    fill  this  mortal 

sphere, 
Those  who  are  hung,  and  those  who  just 

get  clear ; 
And  I  'm  the  schoolmaster  (though  you  may 

laugh), 

Teaching  good  manners  to  the  second  half. 
Without  my  help  to  keep  the  scamps  in  awe, 
You  'd  have  no  virtue  and  you  'd  know  no 

law ; 

And  now  they  only  hang  for  blood  alone, 
Ten  times  more  hard  to  rule  the  mob  have 

grown. 
I  've  heard  of  late  some  foolish  folk  have 

plann'd 

To  put  an  end  to  hanging  in  the  land  ; 
But,  Lord  !  how  little  do  the  donkeys  know 
This  world  of  ours,  when  they  talk  non- 
sense so  I 


It 's  downright  blasphemy  !     You  might  as 

well 

Try  to  get  rid  at  once  of  Heaven  and  Hell ! 
Mankind  is  bad,  sir,  naturally  bad, 
Both  rich  and  poor,  man,  woman,  sad,  or 

glad! 
While  some  to  keep  scot-free  have  got  the 

wit 
(Not   that   they're  really    better -devil   a 

bit !), 

Others  have  got  my  mark  so  plain  and  fair 
In  both  their  eyes,  I  stop,  and  gape,  and 

stare. 
Look  at  that  fellow    stretch'd  upon    the 

green, 

Strong  as  a  bull,  though  only  seventeen  ; 
Bless  you,  I  know  the  party  every  limb, 
I  've  hung  a  few  fac-simiks  of  him  ! 
And  cast  your  eye  on  that  pale  wench  who 

sips 

Gin  in  the  corner  ;  note  her  hanging  lips, 
The  neat-shaped  boots,  and  the  neglected 

lace: 

There  "s  baby-murder  written  on  her  face  ! — 
Tho'  accidents  may  happen  now  and  then, 
I  know  my  mark  on  women  and  on  men, 
And  oft  I  sigh,  beholding  it  so  plain, 
To  think  what  heaps  of  labour  still  remain  ! ' 

He  sigh'd,  and  yet  methought  he  smackt 

his  lips, 

As  one  who  in  anticipation  sips 
A  feast  to  come.  Then  I,  with  a  sly  thought, 
Drew  forth  a  picture  I  had  lately  bought 
In  Regent  Street,  and  begged  the  man  of 

fame 

To  give  his  criticism  on  the  same. 
First  from  their  case  his  spectacles  he  took, 
Great  silver-rimm'd,  and  with  deep  search- 
ing look 
The  picture's  lines  in  silence  pondered  he. 

'  This  is  as  bad  a  face  as  ever  I  seo  ! 
This  is  no  common  area-sneak  or  thief, 
No  stealer  of  a  pocket-handkerchief, 
No  !  deep 's  the  word,  and  knowing,  and 

precise, 

Afraid  of  nothing,  but  as  cool  as  ice. 
Look  at  his  ears,  how  very  low  they  lie, 
Lobes  far  below  the  level  of  his  eye, 
And  there's  a  mouth,   like  any  rat-trap's 

tight, 
And  at  the  edges  bloodless,  close,  and  white. 


THE  LAST  OF  THE   HANGMEN. 


181 


Who  is  the  party  ?  Caught,  on  any  charge  ? 
There's  mischief  near,    if  he  remains  at 
large ! ' 

Gasping  with  indignation,  angry-eyed. 
'  Silence  !  'tis  very  blasphemy, '  I  cried  ; 
'  Misguided  man,  whose  insight  is  a  sham, 
These  noble  features  you  would  brand  and 

damn, 

This  saintly  face,  so  subtle,  calm,  and  high, 
Are  those  of  one  who  would  not  wrong  a 

fly-       . 
A  friend  of  man,  whom  all  man's  sorrows 

stir, 
'Tis  MR.  MILL,  the  great  PHILOSOPHER  ! ' 

Then  for  a  moment  he  to  whom  I  spake 
Seemed    staggered,    but,    with    the    same 

ominous  shake 
O'  the  head,  he,  rallying,  wore  a  smile  half 

kind, 
Pitying  my  simplicity  of  mind. 

'Sir,'  said  he,  '  from  my  word  I  will  not 

stir — 

I  've  seen  that  look  on  many  a  murderer  ; 
But   don't  mistake — it   stands  to  common 

sense 

That  education  makes  the  difference  ! 
I  've  heard  the  party's  name,  and  know  that 

he 

Is  a  good  pleader  for  my  trade  and  me  ; 
And  well  he  may  be  !  for  a  clever  man 
Sees  pretty  well  what  others  seldom  can, — 
That  those  mark'd  qualities   which  make 

him  great 

In  one  way,  might  by  just  a  turn  of  fate 
Have  raised  him  in  another  /    Ah,  it's  sad — 
Mankind  is  bad,  sir,  naturally  bad ! 
It  takes  a  genius  in  our  busy  time 
•        To  plan  and  carry  out  a  bit  of  crime 

That  shakes  the  land  and  raises  up  one's 

hair ; 

Most  murder  now  is  but  a  poor  affair — 
No  art,  no  cunning,  just  a  few  blind  blows 
Struck  by  a  bullet-headed  rough  who  knows 
No  better.     Clever  men  now  see  full  plain 
That  crime  don't  answer.     Thanks  to  me, 

again  ! 
Ah,  when  I  think  what  would  become  of 

men 
Without  my    bit  of    schooling  now    and 

then,— 


To  teach  the  foolish  they  must  mind  their 

play, 

And  keep  the  clever  under  every  day, — 
I  shiver  !     As  it  is,  they  're  kept  by  me 
To  decent  sorts  of  daily  villany — 
Law,  money-lending,  factoring  on  the  land, 
Share-broking,   banking   with   no  cash  in 

hand, 

And  many  a  sort  of  weapon  they  may  use 
Which  never  brings   their  neck   into  the 

noose ; 

For  if  they  're  talented  they  can  invent 
Plenty  of  crime  that  gets  no  punishment, 
Do  lawful  murder  with  no  sort  of  fear 
As  coolly  as  I  drink  this  pot  of  beer  ! ' 

The  Great  Man  paused  and  drank  ;  his 

face  was  grim, 

Half  buried  in  the  pot  ;  and  o'er  its  rim 
His  eye,  like  the  law's  bull's-eye,  flashing 

bright 

To  deepen  darkness  round  it,  threw  its  light 
On  the  gay  scene  before  him,  and  it  seemed 
Rendered  all  wretched  near  it  as  it  gleamed. 
A  shadow  fell  upon  the  merry  place, 
Each  figure  grew  distorted,  and  each  face 
Spake  of  crime  hidden  and  of  evil  thought. 
Darkling   I   gazed,    sick-hearted  and    dis- 
traught, 

In  silence.  Black  and  decent  at  my  side, 
With  reverend  hair,  sat  melancholy-eyed 
The  Patriarch.  To  my  head  I  held  my 

hand, 

And  ponder'd,  and  the  look  of  the  fair  land 
Seemed  deathlike.     On  the  darkness  of  my 

brain 
The  voice,  a  little  thicker,  broke  again  : 

•Ah.  things  don't  thrive  as  they  throve 

once,'  he  said, 
'And   I'm  alone    now   my  old   woman's 

dead. 

I  find  the  Sundays  dull.     First,  I  attend 
The  morning  service,  then  this  way  I  wend 
To  take  my  pipe  and  drop  of  beer  ;  and 

then, 

Home  to  a  lonely  meal  in  town  again. 
'Tis  a  dull  world  !— and  grudges  me  my 

hire — 

I  ought  to  get  a  pension  and  retire. 
What  living  man  has  served  his  country  so  ? 
But  who's   to  take  my  place   I   scarcely 

know  1 


182 


LONDON  POEMS. 


Well,    Heaven  will   punish    their    neglect 

anon : — 
They'll  know  my  merit,  when  I'm  dead 

and  gone  ! ' 

He  stood  upon   his  legs,   and  these,  I 

think, 
Were  rather  shaky,   part  with  age,   part 

drink, 

And  with  a  piteous  smile,  full  of  the  sense 
Of  human  vanity  and  impotence, 
Grimly  he  stood,  half  senile  and  half  sly, 
A  sight  to  make  the  very  angels  cry  ; 
Then  lifted  up  a  hat  with  weepers  on— 
(Worn  for  some  human  creature  dead  and 

gone) 

Placing  it  on  his  head  (unconsciously 
A  little  on  one  side)  held  out  to  me 
His  right  hand,  and,  though  grim  beyond 

belief, 

Wore  unaware  an  air  of  rakish  grief — 
Even  so  we  parted,  and  with  hand-wave 

proud 
He  faded  like  a  ghost  into  the  crowd. 

Home  to  the  mighty  City  wandering, 
Breathing    the  freshness  of  the  fields   of 

Spring, 
Hearing  the  Lark,  and  seeing  bright  winds 

run 

Between  the  bending  rye-grass  and  the  sun, 
I  mused  and  mused ;  till  with  a  solemn 

gleam 

My  soul  closed,  and  I  saw  as  in  a  dream, 
Apocalyptic,  cutting  heaven  across, 
Two  mighty  shapes — a  Gallows  and  a  Cross. 
And  these  twain,  with  a  sea  of  lives  that 

clomb 

Up  to  their  base  and  struck  and  fell  in  foam, 
Moved,  trembled,  changed ;  and  lo !  the 

first  became 
A  jet-black  Shape  that  bowed  its  head  in 

shame 

Before  the  second,  which  in  turn  did  change 
Into  a  luminous  Figure,  sweet  and  strange, 
Stretching  out  mighty  arms  to  bless  the 

thing 
Which  hushed  its    breath    beneath    Him 

wondering. 
And  lo  !   these  visions  vanished  with  no 

word 
In  brightness  ;  and  like  one  that  wakes  I 

heard 


The  church  bells  chime  and  the  cathedrals 

toll, 
Filling  the  mighty  City  like  its  Soul. 

Then,   like  a  spectre  strange  and  woe- 
begone, 

Uprose  again,  with  mourning  weepers  on, 
His  hat  a  little  on  one  side,  his  breath 
Heavy  and  hot,    the  gray-hair'd    Man  of 

Death, 
Tottering,  grog-pimpled,  with  a  trembling 

pace 

Under  the  Gateway  of  the  Silent  Place, 
At  whose  sad  opening  the  great  Puppet 

stands 

The  rope  of  which  he   tugs  with  palsied 
hands. 

Christ  help    me !    whither  do  my  wild 

thoughts  run  ? 

And  Christ  help  thee,  thou  lonely  aged  one  ! 
Christ  help  us  all,  till  all 's  that  dark  grows 

clear — 
Are  those  indeed  the  Sabbath  bells  I  hear? 


LONDON,    1864. 


WHY  should  the  heart  seem  stiller, 

As  the  song  grows  stronger  and  surer  ? 
Why  should  the  brain  grow  chiller, 

And  the  utterance  clearer  and  purer  ? 
To  lose  what  the  people  are  gaining 

Seems  often  bitter  as  gall, 
Though  to  sink  in  the  proud  attaining 

Were  the  bitterest  of  all. 
I  would  to  God  I  were  lying 

Yonder  'mong  mountains  blue, 
Chasing  the  morn  with  flying 

Feet  in  the  morning  dew  ! 
Longing,  and  aching,  and  burning 

To  conquer,  to  sing,  and  to  teach, 
A  passionate  face  upturning 

To  visions  beyond  my  reach, — 
But  with  never  a  feeling  or  yearning 

I  could  utter  in  tuneful  speech  ! 


Yea !  that  were  a  joy  more  stable 
Than  all  that  my  soul  hath  found, — 

Than  to  see  and  to  know,  and  be  able 
To  utter  the  seeing  in  sound  ; 


LONDON,    1864— 7#£  MODERN   WARRIOR. 


For  Art,  the  Angel  of  losses, 

Comes,  \\ith  her  still,  gray  eyes, 
Coldly  my  forehead  crosses, 

Whispers  to  make  me  wise  ; 
And,  too  late,  comes  the  revelation, 

After  the  feast  and  the  play, 
That  she  works  God's  dispensation 

By  cruelly  taking  away  : 
By  burning  the  heart  and  steeling, 

Scorching  the  spirit  deep, 
And  changing  the  flower  of  feeling, 

To  a  poor  dried  flower  that  may  keep  ! 
What  wonder  if  much  seems  hollow, 

The  passion,  the  wonder  dies  ; 
And  I  hate  the  angel  I  follow, 

And  shrink  from  her  passionless  eyes, — 
Who,  instead  of  the  rapture  of  being 

I  held  as  the  poet's  dower — 
Instead  of  the  glory  of  seeing, 

The  impulse,  the  splendour,  the  power — 
Instead  of  merrily  blowing 

A  trumpet  proclaiming  the  day, 
Gives,  for  her  sole  bestowing, 

A  pipe  whereon  to  play  ! 
While  the  spirit  of  boyhood  hath  faded, 

And  never  again  can  be, 
And  the  singing  seemeth  degraded, 

Since  the  glory  hath  gone  from  me, — 
Though  the  glory  around  me  and  under* 

And  the  earth  and  the  air  and  the  sea, 
And  the  manifold  music  and  wonder, 

Are  grand  as  they  used  to  be  ! 


Is  there  a  consolation 

For  the  joy  that  comes  never  again  ? 
Is  there  a  reservation  ? 

Is  there  a  refuge  from  pain  ? 
Is  there  a  gleam  of  gladness 

To  still  the  grief  and  the  stinging? 
Only  the  sweet,  strange  sadness, 

That  is  the  source  of  the  singing. 


For  the  sound  of  the  city  is  weary, 

As  the  people  pass  to  and  fro, 
And  the  friendless  faces  are  dreary, 

As  they  come,  and  thrill  through  us, 

and  go ; 
And  the  ties  that  bind  us  the  nearest 

Of  our  error  and  weakness  are  born  ; 
And  our  dear  ones  ever  love  dearest 

Those  parts  of  ourselves  that  we  scorn  ; 


And  the  weariness  will  not  be  spoken, 

And  the  bitterness  dare  not  be  said, 
The  silence  of  souls  is  unbroken, 

And  we  hide  ourselves  from  our  Dead  ! 
And  what,  then,  secures  us  from  madness  ? 

Dear  ones,  or  fortune,  or  fame  ? 
Only  the  sweet  singing  sadness 

Cometh  between  us  and  shame. 

v. 
And  there  dawneth  a  time  to  the  Poet, 

When  the  bitterness  passes  away, 
With  none  but  his  God  to  know  it, 

He  kneels  in  the  dark  to  pray  ; 
And  the  prayer  is  turn'd  into  singing, 

And  the  singing  findeth  a  tongue, 
And  Art,  with  her  cold  hands  clinging, 

Comforts  the  soul  she  has  stung. 
Then  the  Poet,  holding  her  to  him, 

Findeth  his  loss  is  his  gain  : 
The  sweet  singing  sadness  thrills  through 
him, 

Though  nought  of  the  glory  remain  ; 
And  the  awful  sound  of  the  city, 

And  the  terrible  faces  around, 
Take  a  truer,  tenderer  pity, 

!  And  pass  into  sweetness  and  sound  ; 
The  mystery  deepens  to  thunder, 

Strange    vanishings    gleam    from  the 

cloud, 
And  the  Poet,  with  pale  lips  asunder, 

Stricken,  and  smitten,  and  bow'd, 
Starteth  at  times  from  his  wonder, 

And  sendeth  his  Soul  up  aloud  ! 


THE  MODERN  WARRIOR. 

O  WARRIOR  for  the  Right, 
Though  thy  shirt  of  mail  be  white 

As  the  snows  upon  the  breast  of  The  Adored, 
Though  the  weapon  thou  mayest  claim 
Hath  been  temper'd  in  the  flame 

Of  the  fire  upon  the  Altar  of  the  Lord, 
Ere  the  coming  of  the  night, 
Thy  mail  shall  be  less  bright, 

«\.nd  the  taint  of  sin  may  settle  on  the 
Sword  ! 

For  the  foemen  thou  must  meet 
Are  the  phantoms  in  the  street, 
And  thine  armour  shall  be  foul'd  in  many  a 
place, 


i84 


LONDON  POEMS. 


And  the  shameful  mire  and  mud, 
With  a  grosser  stain  than  blood, 

Shall  be  scatter'd  'mid  the  fray  upon  thy 

face  ; 

And  the  helpless  thou  dost  aid 
Shall  shrink  from  thee  dismayed, 

Till  thou  comest  to  the  knowledge  of  things 


Ah,  mortal,  with  a  brow 

Like  the  gleam  of  sunrise,  thou 
May'st  wander  from   the  pathway  in  thy 
turn, 

In  the  noontide  of  thy  strength 

Be  stricken  down  at  length, 
And  cry  to  God  for  aid,  and  live,  and  learn  ; 

And  when,  with  many  a  stain, 

Thou  arisest  up  again, 
The  lightning  of  thy  look  will  be  less  stern. 

Thou  shall  see  with  humbler  eye 

The  adulteress  go  by, 
Nor  shudder  at  the  touch  of  her  attire  ; 

Thou  shall  only  look  with  grief 

On  the  liar  and  the  thief, 
Thou  shall  meel  the  very  murtherer  in  the 
mire — 

And  to  which  wouldst  thou  accord, 

O  thou  Warrior  of  the  Lord  ! 
The  vengeance  of  the  Sword  and  of  the 

Fire? 

Nay !  baller'd  in  the  fray, 

Thou  shall  quake  in  acl  lo  slay, 
And  remember  thy  transgression  and  be 
meek  ; 

And  the  thief  shall  grasp  thy  hand, 

And  the  liar  blushing  stand, 
And  Ihe  harlol  if  she  lisl  shall  kiss  Ihy 
cheek  ; 

And  Ihe  murlherer,  unafraid, 

Shall  meel  thee  in  the  shade, 
And  pray  thee  for  Ihe  doom  ihou  will  not 

wreak. 

Yet  thou  shall  help  the  frail 
From  the  phantoms  lhal  assail,          ^ 
Yea,  Ihe  strong  man  in  his  anger  Ihou  shall 

dare ; 

Thy  voice  shall  be  a  song 
Against  wickedness  and  wrong, 
But  Ihe  wicked  and  the  wronger  thou  shall 
spare. 


And  while  ihou  lead'sl  Ihe  van, 
The  ungraleful  hand  of  man 
Shall  smite  thee  down  and  slay  thee  un- 
aware. 

With  an  agonised  cry 
Thou  shall  shiver  down  and  die, 
With  stained    shirt  of    mail  and  broken 

brand ; 

And  the  voice  of  men  shall  call, 
•  He  is  fallen  like  us  all, 
Though  the  weapon  of  Ihe  Lord  was  in  his 

hand  ; ' 

And  ihine  epilaph  shall  be, 
'  He  was  wretched  ev'n  as  we  ; ' 
And  thy  tomb  may  be  unhonoured  in  the 
land. 

Bui  Ihe  basesl  of  Ihe  base 
Shall  bless  Ihy  pale  dead  face 

And  Ihe  Ihief  shall  sleal  a  bloody  lock  of 

hair  ; 

And  over  thee  asleep, 
The  adulleress  shall  weep 

Such  lears  as  she  can  never  shed  elsewhere, 
Shall  bless  the  broken  brand 
In  thy  chill  and  nerveless  hand, 

Shall  kiss  thy  stained  vesture  wilh  a  prayer. 

Then,  while  in  lhal  chill  place 
Sland  Ihe  basesl  of  Ihe  base, 

Galher'd  round  Ihee  in  ihe  silence  of  Ihe 

dark, 

A  while  Face  shall  look  down 
On  ihe  silence  of  ihe  lown, 

And  see  Ihee  lying  dead  with  those  to  mark, 
And  a  voice  shall  fill  ihe  air, 
'  Bear  my  Warrior  lying  ihere 

To  his  sleep  upon  my  Breasl ! '  ard  they 
shall  heark. 

Lo,  Ihen  Ihose  fallen  ihings 

Shall  perceive  a  rush  of  wings 
Growing  nearer  down  ihe  azure  gulfs  un- 
trod, 

And  around  them  in  the  night 

There  shall  grow  a  wondrous  light, 
While  they  hide  affrighted  faces  on  Ihe  sod, 

Bui  ere  again  'lis  dark, 

They  shall  raise  iheir  eyes,  and  mark 
While  arms  lhal  wafl  ihe  Warrior  up  to 

God! 


PAN;   EPILOGUE— V ENVOI  TO  LONDON  POEMS. 


185 


PAN:  EPILOGUE. 

'Pan,  Pan  is  dead  !' — E.  B.  BROWNING. 

THE  broken  goblets  of  the  Gods 

Lie  scatter'd  in  the  Waters  deep, 
Where  the  tall  sea-fhg  blows  and  nods 

Over  the  shipwreck' d  seamen's  sleep  ; 
The  gods  like  phantoms  come  and  go 

Amid  the  wave-wash'd  ocean-hall, 
Above  their  heads  the  bleak  winds  blow  ; 
They  sigh,  they  shiver  to  and  fro — 

'  Pan,  Pan  ! '  those  phantoms  call. 

O  Pan,  great  Pan,  thou  art  not  dead, 

Nor  dost  thou  haunt  that  weedy  place, 
Tho'  blowing  winds  hear  not  thy  tread, 

And  silver  runlets  miss  thy  face  ; 
Where  ripe  nuts  fall  thou  hast  no  state, 

Where  eagles  soar,  thou  now  art  dumb, 
By  lonely  meres  thou  dost  not  wait ; — 
But  here  'mid  living  waves  of  fate 

We  feel  thee  go  and  come  ! 

O  piteous  one  ! — In  wintry  days 

Over  the  City  falls  the  snow, 
And,  where  it  whitens  stony  ways, 

I  see  a  Shade  flit  to  and  fro  ; 
Over  the  dull  street  hangs  a  cloud — 

It  parts,  an  ancient  Face  flits  by, 
'Tis  thine !    'tis  thou !      Thy    gray  head 

bowed, 
Dimly  thou  flutterest  o'er  the  crowd, 

With  a  thin  human  cry. 

Ghost-like,  O  Pan,  thou  glimmerest  still, 

A  spectral  Face  with  sad  dumb  stare  ; 
On  rainy  nights  thy  breath  blows  chill 

In  the  street-walker's  dripping  hair  ; 
Thy  ragged  woe  from  street  to  street 

Goes  mist-like,  constant  day  and  night ; 
But  often,  where  the  black  waves  beat, 
Thou  hast  a  smile  most  strangely  sweet 

For  honest  hearts  and  light  ! 

Where'er  thy  shadowy  vestments  fly 
There  comes  across  the  waves  of  strife, 

Across  the  souls  of  all  close  by, 
The  gleam  of  some  forgotten  life  : 

There  is  a  sense  of  waters  clear, 
An  odour  faint  of  flowery  nooks  ; 

Strange-plumaged  birds  seem  flitting  near 


The  cold  brain  blossoms,  lives  that  hear 
Ripple  like  running  brooks. 

And  as  thou  passest,  human  eyes 

Look  in  each  other  and  are  wet — 
Simple  or  gentle,  weak  or  wise, 

Alike  are  full  of  tender  fret  ; 
And  mean  and  noble,  brave  and  base 

Raise  common  glances  to  the  sky  ; — 
And  lo  !  the  phantom  of  thy  Face, 
While  sad  and  low  thro'  all  the  place 

Thrills  thy  thin  human  cry  ! 

Christ  help  thee,  Pan  !  canst  thou  not  go 

Now  all  the  other  gods  are  fled  ? 
Why  dost  thou  flutter  to  and  fro 

When  all  the  sages  deem  thee  dead  ? 
Or,  if  thou  still  must  live  and  dream, 

Why  leave  the  fields  of  harvest  fair — 
Why  quit  the  peace  of  wood  and  stream  — 
And  haunt  the  streets  with  eyes  that  gleam 

Through  white  and  holy  hair? 


VENVOI  TO   LONDON  POEMS. 

I  DO  not  sing  for  Maidens.    They  are  roses 

Blowing  along  the  pathway  I  pursue  : 
No  sweeter  things  the  wondrous  world  dis- 
closes, 

And  they  are  tender  as  the  morning  dew. 
Blessed  be  maids  and  chi'dren  :   day  and 

night 
Their  holy  scent  is  with  me  as  I  write. 

I  do  not  sing  for  School-boys  or  School- 
men. 
To  give  them  ease  I  have  no  languid 

theme 
When,  weary  with  the  wear  of  book  and 

pen, 

They  seek  their  trim  poetic  Academe  ; 
Nor  can  I  sing  them  amorous  ditties,  bred 
Of  too  much  Ovid  on  an  empty  head. 

I  do  not  sing  aloud  in  measured  tone 
Of  those  fair  paths  the  easy-soul' d  pursue ; 

Nor  do  I  sing  for  Lazarus  alone, 
I  sing  for  Dives  and  the  Devil  too. 

Ah  !  would  the  feeble  song  I  sing  might 
swell 

As  high  as  Heaven,  and  as  deep  as  Hell ! 


1 86 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


I  sing  of  the  stain'd  outcast  at  Love's  feet, — 
Love  with  his  wild  eyes  on  the  evening 
light ; 

I  sing  of  sad  lives  trampled  down  like  wheat 
Under  the  heel  of  Lust,  in  Love's  despite; 

I  glean  behind  those  wretched  shapes  ye  see 

In  the  cold  harvest-fields  of  Infamy. 

I  sing  of  death-beds  (let  no  man  rejoice 
Till    that    last    piteous  touch   of  all  is 

given  !)  ; 

I  sing  of  Death  and  Life  with  equal  voice, 
Heaven  watching  Hell,  and  Hell  illumed 

by  Heaven. 
I  have  gone  deep,  far  down  the  infernal 

stair — 
And  seen  the  spirits  congregating  there. 


I  sing  of  Hope,  that  all  the  lost  may  hear  ; 

I  sing  of  Light,  that  all  may  feel  its  ray  ; 

I  sings  of  Soul,  that  no  one  man  may  fear  ; 

I  sing  of  God,  that  some  perchance  may 

pray. 
Angels  in  Hosts  have  praised  Him  loud  and 

long, 
But  Lucifer's  shall  be  the  harvest  song. 


Oh,  hush  a  space  the  sounds  of  voices  light 
Mix'd  to  the  music  of  a  lover's  lute. 

Stranger  than  dream,  so  luminously  bright, 
The  eyes  are  dazzled  and  the  mouth  is 
mute, 

Sits  Lucifer  ;  singing  to  sweeten  care, 

He  twines  immortelles  in  his  hoary  hair  ! 


Miscellaneous  Poems. 

(1866-70.) 


THE  DEATH  OF  ROLAND. 

De  Karlemane  et  de  Rolant, 
Et  d'Olivier,  et  des  vassaus, 
Qui  moururent  a  Rainscevaux  ! 


DEAD  was  Gerard  the  fair,  the  girl-mouth'd, 

the  gay, 
Who  jested  with  the  foe  he  slung  his  sword 

to  slay  ; 
Dead  was  the  giant  Guy,  big-hearted,  small 

of  brain  ; 
Dead  was  the  hunchback  Sanche,  his  red 

hunch  slit  in  twain  ; 
Dead  was  the  old  hawk  Luz,  and  sleeping 

by  his  side 
His  twin-sons,  Charles  the  fleet,  and  Pierre 

the  serpent-eyed  ; 
Dead  was  Antoine,  the  same  who  swore  to 

speak  no  word 
Till  five  score   heathen  heads  fell  by  his 

single  sword  ; 
Dead  was  the  wise  Gerin,  who  gript  both 

spear  and  pen ; 
Sansun  was  dead,  Gereir  was  dead  ! — dead 

were  the  mighty  men  ! 


II. 
Then   Roland   felt  his   sense   return,   and 

stirr'd,  and  cried, 
Felt  down  if  Adalmar  lay  safe  against  his 

side, 
And  smiled  most  quietlie,  for  joy  the  Sword 

was  there  ; 
With  heavy-mailed  hand  brush' d  back  his 

bloody  hair, 
And  lying  prone  upon  his  back,  beheld  on 

high 
The  stars  like  leopard-spots  strewn  in  the 

sapphire  sky. 
He  turn'd  his  head,  and  lo  !  the  large  hills 

looming  dim, 
In  the  wan  west  the  Moon  with  red  and 

wasting  rim ; 
Then  sighing  sore,  swung  round  his  head 

as  in  a  swoon, 
And  met    the    hunchback's    eyne,    glazed 

beneath  the  Moon. 
Chill  was  the  air,  and  frosty  vapours  to  and 

fro, 
Like  sheeted  shapes,   in  dim  moonshine, 

were  stealing  slow ; 
And  Roland  thought,  because  his  wound 

had  made  him  weak, 


THE  DEATH  OF  ROLAND. 


187 


The  cold  shapes  breathed  alive  their  breath 

upon  his  cheek. 
Crawling  unto  his  knees,  shivering  in  the 

cold, 
He  loosed  his  helm,  and  dimly  gleaming 

down  it  roll'd  ; 
And  darkly  his  dim  eyes  distinguish'd  things 

around, — 
The  mute  and  moveless  shapes  asleep  upon 

the  ground, 

A  helm  glittering  dim,  a  sword-hilt  twink- 
ling red, 
A  white  steed  quivering  beside  a  warrior 

dead, 
And  in  one  moonlit  place,  a  ring  on  a  white 

hand, 
When    Roland     thought,     'Gerard!     the 

brightest  of  the  band  ! ' 
And    no    one    stirr'd ;    behind,    the    hills 

loom'd  large  and  dim  ; 
And  in  the  west  the  waning  Moon  with  red 

and  wasting  rim. 


Then  Roland  cried  aloud,  '  If  living  man 

there  be 
Among  these  heaps  of  slain,  let  that  man 

answer  me  ! ' 
And  no  soul  spake.    The  wind  crept  chilly 

over  all, 
And   no  man  felt  it  creep,  or  heard   the 

leader  call. 
1  Ho,  Olivier !  Gerin  !  speak,  an'  ye  be  not 

slain  ! ' 
The   voices  of  the  hills  echoed    the    cry 

again, — 
Only  a  heathen  churl  rose  cursing  on  his 

side, 
And  spat  at  him  who  spake,  and  curl'd  his 

limbs,  and  died. 
Then   Roland's  mighty  heart  was    heavy 

with  its  woes, — 

When   fitfully,  across  the  fields,   faint  ra- 
diance rose, 
First  a  faint  spark,  and  then  a  gleam,  and 

then  a  glare, 
Then    smoke    and    crimson    streaks    that 

mingled  in  the  air, 
And  as  the  thick  flame  clear'd,  and  the 

black  smoke  swam  higher, 
There  loom'd  beyond  a  Shape  like  one  girt 

round  with  fire  ! 


And  Roland  cried  aloud,  because  his  joy 

was  great, 
And  brandish'd  Adalmar,  and  fell  beneath 

the  weight, 
But  lying  prone  strain'd  eyes,  and,  gazing 

through  the  night, 
Still  saw  the  glittering  Shape  circled  with 

spectral  light. 
He  seem'd  in  a  dark  dream,  he  could  not 

think  at  all, 
Until  his  heart  rose  up,  and  he  had  strength 

to  crawl : 
Then,  like  a  bruised  worm  weary  he  slipt 

and  slow, 
Straining  his  fever'd  eyes  lest  the  sweet 

ghost  should  go, 
And  oft  he  paused  to  breathe,  feeling  his 

pulses  fail, 
'Mong  heathens  foul  to  smell  and  warriors 

clad  in  mail, 
But  coming  near  the  gleam  beheld  the  godly 

man, 
Turpin  the  Archbishop,  unhelm'd  and  gaunt 

and  wan, — 
Gripping  with  skinny  hand  the  ivory  Cross 

sat  he, 
Clad  head  to  heel  in  frost-white  mail  and 

propt  against  a  tree. 


And  when  on  hands  and  knees  the  stricken 

Chief  came  near, 
The  Bishop  raised  the  Cross,  and  knew  his 

comrade  dear ; 
And  Roland's  heart  swell' d  up,  and  tears 

were  on  his  cheek, 
He  touch'd  the  blessed  Cross,  and  smiled 

and  did  not  speak  ; 
While,   'Glory   be   to   God!'  the   Bishop 

faintly  said, 
'  Thou  livest,  kinsman  dear,  though  all  the 

rest  be  dead ! 
For  while  I  linger'd  here  and  listen'd  for  a 

sound, 
And  in  the  dim  red  Moon  beheld  the  dead 

around, 

Thinking  I  heard  a  cry,  I  sought  to  cry  again, 
But  all  my  force  had  fled,  and  I  was  spent 

with  pain  ; 
When,  peering  round,  I  saw  this  heathen 

at  my  heel, 
And  search'd  his  leathern  scrip  and  gat  me 

flint  and  steel, 


188 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Then  crawl'd,  though  swooning-sick,  and 

found  his  charger  gray, 
And  searching  in  the  bags  found  wither'd 

grass  and  hay, 
And  made  a  fire,  a  sign  for  thee,  whoe'er 

thou  wert, 
But  fainted  when  it  blazed,  for  I  am  sorely 

hurt  ; 
And  waken'd  to  behold  thee  near,  wounded 

and  weak, 
The  red  fire  flaming  on  thy  face,  thy  breath 

upon  my  cheek.' 

v. 
Then  those  brave  (  hiefs  wrung  hands, 

and  as  the  crimson  flare 
Died  out,  and  all  was  dark,  the  Bishop  said 

a  prayer ; 
And  shadows  loom'd  out  black  against  the 

frosty  shine, 
While  Turpin  search'd  his  pouch  and  mur- 

mur'd,  '  Here  is  wine  ! ' 
And  Roland  on  .his  elbows  raised  himself 

and  quaff' d, 
Yea,  till  his  head  reel'd  round,  a  great  and 

goodly  draught, 
And  quickly  he  felt  strong,  his  heart  was 

wild  and  light, 
He  placed  his  dear  Sword  softly  down,  and 

rose  his  height, 
Loosening  his  mail,  drew  forth  the  shirt 

that  lay  beneath, 
And  took  the  blood-stain'd  silk  and  tore  it 

with  his  teeth, 
Dressing  the  Bishop's  wounds  with  chilly 

hand  and  slow, 
Then,  while  the  Bishop  pray'd,  bound  up 

his  own  wide  wound  alsoe. 


VI. 

Then  Roland  search'd  around,  dipping 

his  hands  in  blood, 
Till  in  a  henchman's  pack  he  found  a  torch 

of  wood, 
And  taking  flint  and  steel,  blew  with  his 

mouth,  and  lo  ! 
The  torch    blazed    bright,    and    all    grew 

crimson  in  the  glow. 
Then  into  Turpin's  hands  he  set  that  beacon 

bright 
Who  glittering  like  fire,  sat  looming  in  its 

light, 


And  crept  across  the  mead,  into  the  dark 

again, 
And  felt  the  faces  of  the  dead,  seeking  the 

mighty  men. 

VII. 

Blest  be  thy  name,  White  Mary,  for  thy 

breath  and  might, 
Like  vapour  cold,  did  fill  the  nostrils  of  thy 

knight ! 
Yea,  all  his  force  came  back,  his  red  wound 

ceased  to  bleed, 
And  he  had  hands  of  strength  to  do  a  blessed 

deed! 
For  one  by  one  he  found  each  well-beloved 

head, 
Sought  out  the  mighty  Chiefs,  among  the 

drifts  of  dead, 
Softly  unloosed   their   helms,  let  the  long 

tresses  flow, 
Trail'd  them  to  Turpin's  feet  and  set  them 

in  a  row  ; 
And  underneath    the   tree  the   pine-torch 

blazing  bright 
Lit  shapes  in  silvern  mail  and  faces  snowy 

white  : 
Sansun,  who  grasp'd  his  sword  with  grip 

that  ne'er  unloosed  ; 
Gerin,  with  chin  on  breast,  as  if  he  breathed 

and  mused  ; 
Great  Guy,  with  twisted  limbs,  and  bosom 

gash'd  and  bare, 
And  blood-clots  on  his  arms  the  frost  had 

frozen  there  ; 

Old  Luz,  his  skinny  hands  filled  with  a  foe- 
man's  beard  ; 
Charles  with  his  feet  lopp'd  off,  Pierre  with 

his  green  eye  spear'd  ; 
Sanche,  the  fierce  woman's  foe,  and  round 

his  neck,  behold  ! 

A  lock  of  lady's  hair  set  in  a  ring  of  gold  ; 
Antoine,  with  crafty  smile,  as  if  new  fights 

he  plann'd  ; 
Gerard,  still  smiling  on  the  ring  that  deckt 

his  hand  ; 
And,  brightest  of  the  host,  our  Roland's 

comrade  dear,          • 
The  iron    woman-shape,    the    long-lock'd 

Olivier, 
Who  gript  the  bladeless  hilt  of  Durandal 

his  pride, 
And  held  it  to  his  kissing  lips,  as  when  he 

droop'd  and  died. 


THR  DEATH  OF  ROLAND. 


189 


VIII. 

And  Turpin  raised  the  torch,  counted  them, 

one  by  one : 
'  Ah,  woe  is  me,  sweet  knights,  for  now  your 

work  is  done  ! ' 
Then,  reaching  with  the  Cross,  he  touch'd 

their  brows  and  cried  : 
'  White  Mary  take  your  souls,  and  place 

them  at  her  side, 
White   Mary  take  your  souls,  and  guard 

them  tender-lie, — 
For  ye  were  goodly  men  as  any  men  that 

be!' 
And  Roland  stooping  touch'd  the  brow  of 

Olivier, 
Smoothing  the  silken  hair  behind  the  small 

white  ear, 
And  cried,  '  Ah,  woe  is  me,  that  we  should 

ever  part ! ' 
And  kiss'd  him  on  the  clay-cold  lips,  and 

swoon"  d,  for  ache  of  heart. 


IX. 

Then  Turpin  dropt  the  torch,  that  flamed 

upon  the  ground, 
But  drinking  blood  and  dew,  died  out  with 

drizzlie  sound  ; 
He  groped  for  Roland's  heart,  and  felt  it 

faintly  beat, 
And,   feeling  on  the  earth,  he  found  the 

wine-tlask  sweet, 
And  fainting  with  the  toil,  slaked  not  his 

own  great  drouth, 
But,  shivering,  held  the  flask  to  Roland's 

gentle  mouth  : 
E'en  then,  his  Soul  shot  up,  and  in  its  shirt 

of  steel 
The  Corse  sank  back,  with  crash  like  ice 

that  cracks  beneath  the  heel ! 


x. 

The  frosty  wind  awaken'd  Roland  from  his 

swound, 
And,  spitting  salt  foam  from  his  tongue,  he 

look'd  around, 
And  saw  the  Bishop  dear  lying  at  length 

close  by, — 
Touch'd  him,   and  found  him  cold,   and 

utter "d  a  great  cry  : 
'  Now,  dead  and  cold,  alas !  lieth  the  noblest 

wight 


For  preaching  sermons  sweet  and  wielding 
sword  in  fight  ; 

His  voice  was  as  a  trump  that  on  a  moun- 
tain blows, 

He  scatter'd  oils  of  grace  and  wasted 
heathen-foes, — 

White  Mary  take  his  soul,  to  join  our  com- 
rades dear, 

And  let  him  wear  his  Bishop's  crown  in 
heaven  above,  as  here  1 ' 


XI. 

Now  it  grew  chiller  far,  the  grass  was  moist 

with  dew, 
The  landskip  glimmer'd   pale,    the  frosty 

breezes  blew, 

The  many  stars  above  melted  like  snow- 
flakes  white, 
Behind  the  great  blue  hills  the  East  was 

laced  with  light, 
The  dismal  vale  loom'd  clear    against  a 

crimson  glow, 
Clouds  spread  above  like  wool,  pale  steam 

arose  below, 
And  on  the  faces  dead  the  frosty  Morning 

came, 

On  mighty  men  of  mark  and  squires  un- 
known to  fame, 
And  golden  mail  gleam'd  bright,  and  broken 

steel  gleam'd  gray, 
And  cold  dew  filled  the  wounds  of  those 

who  sleeping  lay  ; 
And  Roland,  rising,  drank  the  dawn  with 

lips  apart, 
But  scents  were  in  the  air  that  sicken' d  his 

proud  heart ! 
Yea,  all  was  deathly  still ;  and  now,  though 

it  was  day, 
The  Moon  grew  small  and  pale,  but  did 

not  pass  away, 
The  white  mist  wreath'd  and  curl'd  over  the 

glittering  dead  ; 
A    cock  crew,    far  among  the  hills,   and 

echoes  answered. 


Then  peering  to  the  East,  through  the  thick 

vaporous  steam, 
He  spied  a  naked  wood,  hard  by  a  running 

stream  ; 


190 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Thirsting  full  sore,  he  rose,  and  thither  did 

he  hie, 
Faintly,  and  panting  hard,  because  his  end 

was  nigh  ; 
But  first  he  stooping  loosed  from  Turpin's 

fingers  cold 
The  Cross  inlaid  with  gems  and  wrought 

about  with  gold, 
And  bare  the  holy  Cross  aloft  in  one  weak 

hand, 
And  with  the  other  trail'd  great  Adalmar  his 

brand. 

Thus  wearily  he  came  into  the  woody  place, 
And  stooping  to  the  stream  therein  did  dip 

his  face, 
And  in  the  pleasant  cold  let  swim  his  great 

black  curls, 
Then  swung  his  head  up,  damp  with  the 

dim  dewy  pearls ; 
And  while  the  black  blood  spouted  in  a 

burning  jet, 
He  loosed  the  bandage  of  his  wound  and 

made  it  wet, 
Wringing  the   silken   folds,   making  them 

free  from  gore, 
Then  placed  them  cool  upon  the  wound, 

and  tighten'd  them  once  more. 

XIII. 

Eastward  rose  cloudy  mist,  drifting  like 

smoke  in  air, 
Ghastly  and  round  the  Sun  loom'd  with  a 

lurid  glare, 
High  overhead  the   Moon  shrivell'd  with 

sickle  chill, 
The  frosty  wind  dropp'd  down,  and  all  was 

deathlier  still, 
When  Roland,  drawing  deep  the  breath  of 

vapours  cold 
Beheld  three  marble  steps,  as  of  a  Ruin 

old, 
And  at   the  great   tree-bolls  lay   many  a 

carven  stone, 
Thereto  a  Dial  quaint,  where  slimy  grass 

had  grown  ; 
And  frosted  were  the  boughs  that  gather'd 

all  around, 
And  cold  the  runlet  crept,  with  soft  and 

soothing  sound, 
And    sweetly     Roland    smiled,    thinking, 

'  Since  death  is  nigh, 
In  sooth,  I  know  no  gentler  place  where 

gentle  man  could  die  1 ' 


Whereon  he   heard  a  cry,    a  crash    of 

breaking  boughs, 
And  from  the  thicket  wild  leapt  one  with 

painted  brows  ; 
Half-naked,  glistening  grim,  with  oily  limbs. 

he  came, 
His  long-nail'd  fingers  curl'd,  his  bloodshot 

eyes  aflame, 
Shrieking  in  his   own  tongue,  as  on  the 

Chief  he  flew, 
'  Yield  thee  thy  sword  of  fame,  and  thine 

own  flesh  thereto  ! ' 
Then  Roland  gazed  and  frown'd,  though 

nigh  unto  his  death, 
Sat  still,  and  drew  up  all  his  strength  in  one 

great  breath, 
Pray'd  swiftly  to  the  Saints  he  served  in 

former  days, 
With  right  hand  clutch'd  the  Sword  he  was 

too  weak  to  raise, 
And  in  the  left  swung  up  the  Cross  ! — and, 

shrieking  hoarse, 
Between  the  eyebrows  smote  the  foe  with 

all  his  force, 
Yea,   smote    him  to  the    brain,   crashing 

through  skin  and  bone, 
And  prone  the  heathen  fell,  as  heavy  as  a 

stone, — 
While  gold  and  gems  of  price,  unloosen'd 

by  the  blow, 
Ev'n  as  he  fell  rain'd  round  the  ringlets  of 

the  foe  ; 
But  Roland  kiss'd  the  Cross,  and,  laughing, 

backward  fell, 
And  on  the  hollow  air  the  laugh  rang  heavy, 

like  a  knell. 


And  Roland  thought :  '  I  surely  die  ;  but, 

ere  I  end, 
Let  me  be  sure  that  thou  art  ended  too,  O 

friend  ! 
For  should  a  heathen  hand  grasp  thee  when 

I  am  clay, 
My  ghost  would  grieve  full  sore  until  the 

Judgment  Day ! ' 
Then  to  the  marble  steps,  under  the  tall 

bare  trees, 
Trailing  the  mighty  Sword,  he  crawl'd  on 

hands  and  knees, 
And  on  the  slimy  stone  he  struck  the  blade 

with  might — 


THE  DEATH  OF  ROLAND. 


The  bright  hilt  sounding  shook,  the  blade 

flash'd  sparks  of  light ; 
Wildly  again  he  struck,  and  his  sick  head 

went  round, 
Again  there  sparkled  fire,  again  rang  hollow 

sound ; 
Ten   times  he  struck,  and  threw  strange 

echoes  down  the  glade, 
Yet  still  unbroken,  sparkling  fire,  glitter'd 

the  peerless  blade  ! 


Then   Roland   wept,   and    set  his    face 

against  the  stone — 
'  Ah,  woe  !  I  shall  not  rest,  though  cold  be 

flesh  and  bone  ! ' 

And  sickness  seized  his  soul  to  die  so  cheer- 
less death  ; 
When  on  his  naked  neck  he  felt  a  touch, 

like  breath, — 
And  did  not  stir,  but  thought,   '  O  God, 

that  madest  me, 
And  shall  my  sword  of  fame  brandish'd  by 

heathens  be  ? 
And    shall     I    die    accursed,    beneath    a 

heathen's  heel? 
Too  spent  to  slay  the  slave  whose  hated 

breath  I  feel ! ' 
Then,   clenching  teeth,  he  turn'd  to  look 

upon  the  foe, 
His  bright  eyes  growing  dim  with  coming 

death  ;  and  lo  ! 
His  life  shot  up  in  fire,  his  heart  arose 

again, 
For  no  unhallow'd  face  loom'd  on  his  dying 

ken, 
No  heathen-breath    he    felt,  —  though  he 

beheld,  indeed, 
The  white  arch'd  head  and  round  brown 

eyes  of  Veillintif,  his  Steed  ! 


And  pressing  his  moist  cheek  on  his  who 

gazed  beneath, 
Curling  the  upper  lip   to  show  the  large 

white  teeth, 
The  white  horse,   quivering,    look'd  with 

luminous  liquid  eye, 
Then    waved    his    streaming    mane,    and 

utter'd  up  a  cry  ; 
And    Roland's   bitterness    was    spent — he 

laugh'd,  he  smiled, 


He  clasp'd  his  darling's  neck,  wept  like  a 

little  child  ; 
He  kiss'd  the  foam-fleck'd  lips,  and  clasp'd 

his  friend  and  cried  : 
'  Ah,  nevermore,  and  nevermore,  shall  we 

to  battle  ride  ! 
Ah,   nevermore,  and  nevermore,  shall  we 

sweet  comrades  be, 

And  Veillintif,  had  I  the  heart  to  die  for- 
getting thee  ? 
To  leave  thy  brave  bright  heart  to  break,  in 

slavery  to  the  foe  ? 
I   had  not  rested  in  the  grave,  if  it  had 

endgd  so  ! 
Ah,  never  shall  we  conquering  ride,  with 

banners  bright  unfinTd, 
A   shining    light    'rnong    lesser    lights,    a 

wonder  to  the  world  ! ' 


And  Veillintif  neigh"  d  low,  breathing  on 

him  who  died, 
Wild  rock'd  his  strong  sad  heart  beneath 

his  silken  side, 
Tears  roll'd  from  his  brown  eyes  upon  his 

master's  cheek, 
While  Roland,  gathering  strength,  though 

wholly  worn  and  weak, 
Held  up  the  glittering  point  of  Adalmar  the 

brand, 
And  at  his  comrade's  heart  drave  with  his 

dying  hand  ; 
And  the  black  blood  sprang   forth,  while 

heavily  as  lead, 
With  shivering,   silken  side,    the    mighty 

Steed  fell  dead. 
Then  Roland,  for  his  eyes  with  frosty  film 

were  dim, 
Groped   for  his   friend,   crept    close,    and 

smiled,  embracing  him  ; 
And,  pillow'd  on  his  neck,  kissing  the  pure 

white  hair, 
Clasp'd  Adalmar  the  brand,  and  tried  to 

say  a  prayer : 
And  that  he  conquering  died  wishing  all 

men  to  know, 
Set  firm  his  lips,  and  turn'd  his  face  towards 

the  foe, 
Then  closed  his  eyes,  and  slept,  and  never 

woke  again. 

Roland  is  dead,  the  gentle  knight  !  dead  is 
the  crown  of  men  ! 


192 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


THE   GIFT  OF  EOS. 

Not  in  a  mist  of  loveless  eyes  dies  he, 

Who  loveth  truly  nobler  light  than  theirs ; 
To  him,  nor  weariness  nor  agony, 

Purblind  appeals,  nor  prayers  ; 
To  Mm,  the  priceless  boon 

To  watch  from  heights  divine  till  all  be  done 
Calm  in  each  dreamy  rising  of  the  Moon, 

Glad  in  each  glorious  coming  of  the  Sun. 

CHORUS  OF   HOURS. 
I. 

Lo  !  here  at  the  portal,  awaiting  new  light, 
We  linger  with  pinions  dripping  dew-light, 
Our  faces  shadow'd,  our  heads  inclining, 
The  bright  star-frost  on  our  tresses  shining  ; 
Our  eyes  turn'd  earthward  in  vigil  holy, 
Sinking  our  voices  and  singing  slowly. 


The  dark  Earth  sleepeth  to  our  intoning, 
The  Ocean  only  is  gleaming  and  moaning  ; 
Our  eyelids  droop  in  a  still  devotion, 
Yet  we  see  the  skies  in  the  glass  of  Ocean,  — 
The  void,  star-lighted,  is  mirror'd  faintly, 
Slow  slides  the  shade  of  Selene  saintly. 


Eos  !  Eos  !  thou  canst  not  hear  us, 

Yet  we  feel  thee  breathing  in  slumber  near 

us  : 

Dark  is  thy  cloud-roof'd  temple  solemn, 
Shadows  deepen  round  arch  and  column  ; 
But  a  quiet  light  streams  round  thee,  lying 
In  the  feeble  arms  of  thy  love  undying. 


Eos  !  Eos  !  thy  cheek  faint-gleaming 
Sendeth  a  joy  through  the  old  man's  dream- 
ing ; 

His  white  hair  poureth  in  frosty  showers 
Round  a  wreath  fresh-woven  of  lily  flowers, 
And  the  flowers  are  fading  and  earthward 

snowing, 

Save  those  thou  breathest  against  unknow- 
ing ! 

TITHONOS. 

What  low,  strange  music  throbs  about  my 

brain  ? 
I  hear  a  motion  as  of  robes — a  moaning. 


EOS. 

'Tis  the  three  sisters  and   their   shadowy 

train, 

Beating  the  right  foot  solemnly,  and  in- 
toning. 
Ah  !  weary  one,  and  have  thy  dreams  been 

ill, 
That  thou  upheavest  thus  a  face  so  pale? 

TITHONOS. 

Methought  that  I  was  dead,  and  cold,  and 

still, 

Deep  in  the  navel  of  a  charmed  dale  ! 
Ah,  love,  thy  gift  doth  heavy  burthen  bring, 

Now  I  grow  old,  grow  old, 
And  these  weird  songs  the  sisters  nightly 

sing 
Haunt  me  with   memories  strange  and 

manifold ; 
For  every  eve,  when  Phoibos  fades  away 

Yonderacross  Parnassos'  snow-tipt height, 
These  halls  feel  empty,  and  the  courts  grow 

gray, 

The  sisters  lose  the  radiance  of  the  day, 
And  thy  bright  hair  fades  to  a  silvern 

light  ; 
And  nothing  seems  that  is  not  sad  though 

sweet ! 
But  Heaven,  this  East,  yea,  and  the  earth 

below 

Are  silenced  to  the  ditties  these  repeat, 
Sinking   their  voices    sad  and  singing 

slow: 

Yea,  Ocean  moans  with  many  waters  !  sleep 
Is  troublous  even  upon  eyes  that  weep  ! 
The  monsters  of  the  earth  are  in  their  lairs 
Moonlit  and  cold  ;   the  owl  sits  still  and 

stares 
Through  woody  nooks  with  round  white 

eye  ;  the  wind 

Breatheth  and  gropeth  blind  ; 
The  burthen  and  the  mystery  and  the  dream, 
The  sense  of  things  that  are  and  yet  may 

be. 
The  strife  between  what  is  and  what  doth 

seem, 
Is  weary  then  on  all,  and  most  on  me  ! 

EOS. 

It  is  enough  to  know  thou  canst  not  die, 
Like  those  of  whom  thou  'plainest,  drowsy 
one  I 


THE   GIFT  OF  EOS. 


193 


TITHONOS. 

The  seasons  come  and  go,  the  moments  fly 
Like  snow-flakes  falling,  melting  in  the 

sun. 
Nothing    abideth — all    must    change    the 

earth 

Puts  on  fresh  raiment  every  dawn  of  day — 
What  seems  most  precious  turns  to  little 

worth — 

Our  love,  whose  face  was  an  auroral  birth, 
Steps  in  the  shade  an  instant, — and  is 

clay. 
Is  it  enough  to  know  I  cannot  die  ? 

Further  than  deathless  life,  can  I  implore? 
Ah,  but  to  know,  as  the  slow  years  sweep 

by, 

That  life  is  worthy  to  be  lived,  is  more. 
Wherefore    the    burthen    and    the   dream 

below  ? 
Wherefore  the  happiness,    the  hope,    the 

woe? 

Wherefore  the  slimy  sense  of  evil  things 
That  draws  the  adder  round  the  young 

man's  eyes? 

Wherefore  the  yearnings  and  imaginings, 
The  songs  of  bards,  the  broodings  of  the 

wise? 

Have  the  gods  written  only  on  their  scroll : 

'  Man  striveth  merely  for  a  little  space, — 

Then  there  is  slumber,  and  the  death-bells 

toll, 
The  children  cry,  the  widow  hides  her 

face, 

The  foolish  dream  is  o'er, 
And  all  is  done  for  ever  evermore  ? ' 
Oh,  wherefore  life  at  all,  if  life  be  such, — 

A  joy,  a  weariness,  a  growing  gray  ! 
If  life  be  more,  how  may  man   live  too 
much? 

EOS. 
Nothing,  be  sure,  can  wholly  pass  away. 


HOURS. 

Crow's-nest  on  a  yew-tree,  swing  slow  in 

sad  weather, 
A  lock  o'  wet  hair  pastes  thy  brown  sides 

together  ! — 
Blood-red  were  her  lips  till  she  paled  and 

grew  thin, 
As  the  pink  under-eyelid  of  snakes  was  her 

skin. 


Crow's-nest  on  a  yew-tree  that  grows  on  a 

tomb, 
The  little  black  fledglings  croak  low  in  the 

gloom  ; 
O  maiden  below,  canst  thou  hear  how  they 

cry? 
Dost  thou  stir  in  thy  sleep  as  the  adder 

goes  by? 
A  worm  crawl'd  away  with  the  little  gold 

ring 
He    placed    on    thy  finger    that    summer 

morning ; 
Then  thy  hand  became  bone,    then  was 

turn'd  into  clay, 
While  thy  heart  wither' d  slowly ;  but  cheerly, 

to-day 
Thy  fingers  are  leaves  on  the  tree,  in  whose 

shade 
He  sits  with  as  tender  a  maid  ! 

TITHONOS. 

Of  death,  corruption,  change,  and  mystery, 
They  chant  their  chime  to  which  the  old 

world  sleeps  ! 

Why  not  for  ever  stand  they  bright  and  free, 

Flinging  a  glad  song  over  dales  and  deeps, 

As  morn  by  morn  they  do,  when  from  my 

breast 
With  rosy  footsteps  thou  dost  bright'ning 

go, 
Blue-winged,  to  Parnassos? 

EOS. 

Be  at  rest ! 

The  sense  of  things  is  dark  on  these  also  ! 
And  e'en  immortal  gods  grow  pale  at  times 
To  hear  their  world-old  rhymes. 
Yea,    Zeus  the  Sire  himself  beholds  and 

hears. 

Stares  vacantly  into  the  blue  profound, 
What  time  a  rainbow  drawn  from  all  earth's 

tears 
Fades  on  Olumpos  with  a  weeping  sound ! 

TITHONOS. 

What  then  remains,  my  soul,  if  this  be  so  ? 

EOS. 
Around  my  neck  I  wind   thy  beard  of 

gray, 

And  kiss  thy  quivering  eyelids  till  they  glow, 
And  thy  face  lightens  on  me,  and  I  say, 
'  Look  in  mine  eyes  and  know  ! ' 

O 


194 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


HOURS. 

O  clod  of  green  mould,  that  wast  lately  a 

man, 
Time  was  thou  wert  footsore  and  weary 

and  wan, 
When  thy  brain  was  as  fire,  when  thine  eyes 

were  as  lead, 
When  thy  hair  was  as  white  as  the  bones  of 

the  dead ! 

Dust  in  the  urn,  on  a  shelf,  in  a  shrine, 
Hast  thou  ears,  hast  thou  eyes,  canst  thou 

feel,  or  divine? 
Bones  in  the  ground,  can  ye  guess  what  ye 

be? 
Brain,  in  the  midst  of  the  bones,  canst  thou 

see? 

Corse,  in  a  clod-gown  clammy  with  dew, 
Skull,  with  a  hole  where  the  arrow  went 

through, 
Do  ye  dream,  are  ye  troubled,  remember  ye 

there 
The  life  and  the  light  that  ye  were? 

TITHONOS. 

Thine  eyes  are  lit  with  passion  strong  enew 
To  melt  a  mortal's  heart  to  fiery  dew  ! 
The  burthen  and  the  wonder  and  the  dream, 
Yea,  all  I  am  or  was,  and  all  I  seem, 
Are  dwarf  d  within  these  liquid  orbs  of  thine 
To  the  blue  shadow  of  a  love  divine  ! 
Yea,  sweetest,  love  is  surest,  truest,  best ! 
And  dearest,  knowing  it  must  last  for  long  ! 

EOS. 
Now,  close  thine  eyes,  lean  heavy  on  my 

breast, 

And  let  my  lips  rain  over  thee  in  song  ! — 
Thou  wert  a  mortal  who  with  fearless  eyes 
Dared  seek  the  love  of  an  immortal  thing; 
Plead    low    thou    didst,    and    strive    and 

agonise, 
Yet  time  ebb'd  on,  and  little  peace  did 

bring  ; 

And  the  immortal  joy  seem'd  far  away, 
Lessening  and  lessening  to  a  speck  of 

gold 

Against  the  gates  of  sunrise,— till  that  day 
I  came  upon  thee  where  thou  sleeping  lay, 
Breathed  smoothness    on    thy  wrinkled 

forehead  old, 

And  woke  thee  to  these  wondrous  halls, 
from  whence 


Thou  seest  the  glimmering  tract  of 

below, 

And  tranced  thee  to  nuptials  so  intense 
Thy  flesh  and  blood  seem'd  melting 

like  snow, 

Leaving  thy  soul  in  its  eternal  hues 
Clear,  strong,  and  pale,  as  yonder  crystal 

sphere 
That  swings  above  my  threshold,  sprinkling 

dews 

Immortal  over  all  who  enter  here  ! — 
And  still  thy  corporal  semblance  ages  on, 
Thy  hair  dries  up,  thy  bones  grow  chill 

and  bare. 

A  little  while,  my  love,  and  all  is  gone, 
Drunk  by  the  lips  of  a  diviner  air ! 

TITHONOS. 

Ah  woe  !  ah  woe  ! — and  I  am  lost  for  aye  ! 

EOS. 
Nothing,  be  sure,  can  wholly  pass  away  ! 

And  nothing  suffers  loss  if  love  remains  ! 
The  motion  of  mine  air  consumes  thy  clay, 
My  breath  dries  up  the  moisture  of  thy 

veins  ; 
Yet  have  I  given  thee  immortal  being, 

Thereto  immortal  love,  immortal  power, 
Consuming  thy  base  substance  till  thy  see- 
ing 
Grows  clearer,  brighter,  purer,  hour  by 

hour ; — 

Immortal  honour,  too,  is  thine,  for  thou 
Hast  sought  the  highest  meed  the  gods 

can  give — 
Immortal   Love  hath  stoop'd  to  kiss  thy 

brow ! 
Immortal   Love  hath  smiled,  and  bade 

thee  live ! 
Wherefore  the  gods  have  given  thee  mighty 

meed, 
And  snatch'd  thee  from  the  death-pyres 

of  thy  race, 
To  wear  away  these  weary  mortal  weeds 

In  a  serener  and  a  purer  place, — 
Not  amid  warriors  on  a  battle  plain, 

Not  by  the  breath  of  pestilence  or  woe, 
But  here,  at  the  far  edge  of  earth  and 

main, 
Whence  light  and  love  and  resurrection 

flow — 
And  I  upon  thy  breast,  to  soothe  the  pain  I 


THE   GIFT  OF  EOS. 


195 


Immortal  life  assured,  what  mattereth 
That  it  be  not  the  old  fond  life  of  breath  ! 
Immortal  life  assured,  the  soul  is  free — 
It  is  enough  to  be  ! 
For  lo !  the  love,  the  dream,  to  which  is 

given 

Divine  assurance  by  a  mortal  peace, 

Mix  with  the  wonders  of  supremest  heaven, 

Become  a  part  of  that    which    cannot 

cease, 

And  being  eternal  must  be  beauteous  too, 
And  being  beauteous,    surely    must   be 

glad! 
O  love,  my  love,  thy  wildest  dreams  were 

true, 
Though  thou  were  footsore  in  thy  quest, 

and  sad  ! 

Not  in  a  mist  of  hungry  eyes  dies  he 
Who  loveth    purely  nobler  light    than 

theirs  ; 

For  him  nor  weariness  nor  agony, 
Purblind  appeals,  nor  prayers  ; 
But  circled  by  the  peace  serene  and  holy 

Of  that  divinest  thought  he  loved  so  long, 
Pensive,  not  melancholy, 
He  mingles  with  those  airs  that  made 

him  strong, — 
A  little  loath  to  quit 

The  old  familiar  dwelling-house  of  clay, 
Yet  calm,  as  the  warm  wind  dissolveth  it, 
And  leaf  by  leaf  it  droppeth  quite  away. 
To  him  the  priceless  boon 
To  watch  from  heights  serene  till  all  be 

done  ; 

Calm  in  each  dreamy  rising  of  the  Moon, 
Glad  in  each  glorious  coming  of  the  Sun  I 

HOURS. 

The  stars  are  fading  away  in  wonder, 
Small    sounds    are    stirring    around    and 

under, 

Far  away,  from  beneath  the  ocean, 
We  hear  a  murmur  of  wheels  in  motion, 
And  the  wind  that  brings  it  along  rejoices, — 
Our  hearts  beat  quicker,  we  lift  our  voices  ! 

EOS. 

It  is  Apollo  !     Hitherward  he  urges 
His  four  steeds,  steaming  odorous  fumes 

of  day  ; 
Along    his    chariot-wheels    the    white  sea 

surges, 
As  up  he  drives  his  fiery-footed  way. 


TITHONOS. 

Ye  brighten,  O  ye  columns  round  about ! 
Ye  melt  in   purple  shades,   arches  and 

towers  ! 
Cloud-roof,  thou  partest,  and  white  hands 

slip  out, 

Scattering  pearls  and  flowers  ! 
Brighter  and  brighter,  blazing  red  and  gold, 
Purple    and    amethyst,    that    float    and 

fly!— 
While,  creeping  in,  a  dawn-wind  fresh  and 

cold 

Pours  silver  o'er  the  couch  whereon  I  lie  \ 
Afar  the  coming  of  Apollo  grows  ! 

His  breath  lifts  up  my  hair  !  my  pulses 

beat! 
My  beard   is   moist  with  dews  divinely 

sweet, 
My  lap  is  fill'd  with  sparkling  leaves  of 

rose, 

Wherein  my  fingers,  withered  and  sere, 
Grope  palsiedly  in  joy  ! — Afar  I  hear 
The  low,  quick  breathing  that  the  earth  is 

making — 

Eastward  she  turns  her  dewy  side,  awaking. 
But  thou  !  but  thou  ! 

Insufferably  brightening  ! 
Thy  feet  yet  bathed  in  moist  still  shade,  thy 

brow 

Glistening  and  lightening, 
Thy  luminous  eyes  enlarging,  ring  in  ring 

Of  liquid  azure,  and  thy  golden  hair 
Unfolding  downward,  curl  on  curl,  to  cling 
Around    thy    naked    feet    rose-tipt  and 

bare! 
Thy  hands  stretch'd  out  to  catch  the  flowers 

down-flowing, 
Thy  blushing  look  on  mine,  thy  light 

green  vest 
In  balmy  airs  of  morning  backward  blowing. 

From  one  divine  white  breast ! 
The  last  star  melts  above  thee  in  the  blue, 
The  cold  moon  shrinks  her  horn,  as  thoui 

dost  go 

Parnassos-ward,  flower-laden,  dripping  dew,. 
Heralding  him  who  cometh  from  below  I 


HOURS. 

i. 

Our  hearts  beat  quicker,  we  lift  our  voices^. 
The  east  grows  golden,  the  earth  rejoices. 


IQ6 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


White  clouds  part  with  a  radiant  motion, 
Moist  sails  glimmer  beneath  on  Ocean, 
And  downward  tripping,  the  sweet  Immorial 
Blushingly  pauses  without  the  portal ! 


Eos !  Eos  !  the  sound  from  under 
Deepens  in  music  and  might  and  wonder  : 
Thou  standest  now  on   Parnassos'  moun- 
tain, 

Thy  feet  drip  pearls  from  the  sacred  foun- 
tain, 
And  the  Sisters  nine,  to   thy  bright  skirt 

clinging, 
Greet  thee  with  smiling  and  mystic  singing  ! 


Eos  !  Eos  !  all  earth  beholds  thee, 
The  light  of  the  sunrise  there  infolds  thee, 
A  cry  comes  up  from  the  earth  below  thee, 
Mountains  and  forests  and  waters  know 

thee, 

Fresh  airs  thy  robe  are  backward  blowing, 
Under  thy  footprints  flowers  are  growing  ! 


Eos  !  Eos  !  the  sound  is  louder  ! 

Behinds       reams    radiance     fiercer     and 

prouder ! 
A  moment  thou  blushest,  and  glad  we  view 

thee, 

Then  Apollo  the  Fire-God  speeds  unto  thee, 
Speeding  by  with  a  smile  he  hails  thee, — 
And  the  golden  cloud  of  his  breathing  veils 

thee! 


CLART  IN  THE    WELL. 

O  MY  fountain  of  a  maiden, 

Sweet  to  hear  and  bright  to  see, 
Now  before  mine  eyes  love-laden 

Dancing,  thrilling,  flashing  free, — 
Still  thy  sparkling  bliss  a  moment,  sit  thee 
down,  and  look  at  me. 

Gaze  into  my  face,  my  dearest ! 

Through  thy  gleaming,  golden  hair  ; 
Meet  mine  eyes — ah  !  thine  are  clearest 

When  my  image  floateth  there  ; 
-Now,  they  still  themselves,  like  waters  when 
the  windless  skies  are  fair. 


In  those  depths  of  limpid  azure 
See  my  baby  likeness  beam  ! 
Deep  blue  with  reflected  pleasure 

From  some  heavenly  dome  of  dream, 
Crystal  currents  of  thy  spirit  swim  around 
it,  glance,  and  gleam  ! 

Hold  my  hand,  and  heark'ning  to  me 

For  a  space,  be  calm  and  cold. 
While  that  liquid  look  flows  through  me 

And  I  love  thee  twenty-fold, 
I  am  smiling  at  a  story  thy  dead  mother 
often  told. 

When  thou  wast  a  little  blossom 
Blown  about  thy  village  home, 
Thou  didst  on  that  mother's  bosom 

Put  a  question  troublesome  : 
'Mother,  please,  where  did  you  find  me? 
whence  do  little  children  come  ? ' 

And  the  dame  with  bright  beguiling 
Kiss'd  her  answer  first,  my  dear  ! 
But,  still  prest,  she  answer'd  smiling — 

'  In  the  orchard  Well  so  clear, 
Thou  wert  seen  one  sunny  morning,  sleep- 
ing, and  we  brought  thee  here. ' 

With  a  look  as  grave  as  this  is       ' 

Thou  didst  ponder  thoughts  profound ; 
On  the  next  day  with  fond  kisses 

Clinging  mother's  neck  around — 
'  Mother  !  mother  !  I've  been  looking  in  the 
Well  where  I  was  found  ! 

1  Bright  and  clear  it  is  !  but — mother  ! ' 
(Here  thine  eyes  look'd  wondering ly) 
'  In  the  well  there  is  another — 
Just  the  very  same  as  me  ! — 
And  it  is  awake  and  moving—  and  its  pretty 
eyes  can  see  ! 

1  When  I  stretch  my  arms  unto  it, 

Out  its  little  arms  stretch  too  ! 
Apple-blossoms  red  I  threw  it, 

And  it  broke  away  from  view  — 
Then  again  it  look'd  up  laughing  through 
the  waters  deep  and  blue  ! ' 

Then  thy  gentle  mother  kiss'd  thee, 

Clari,  as  I  kiss  thee  now. 
With  a  wondering  fondness  bless'd  thee, 
Smooth'd    the    bright    hair  from  thy 

brow — 

Saying,  '  'Tis  a  little  Sister,  happy-eyed  and 
sweet  as  thou  ! 


CLAR1  IN  THE    WELL— SERENADES. 


197 


•  Underneath  the  deep  pure  water 

Dwell  its  parents  in  green  bowers — 
Yes,  it  is  their  little  daughter, 

Just  the  same  as  thou  art  ours  ; 
And  it  loves  to  lie  there,  looking  at  the 
pleasant  orchard  flowers. 

'  Every  day,  while  thou  art  growing, 

Thou  wilt  find  thy  Sister  fair — 
Even  when  the  skies  are  snowing 

And  the  water  freezes  there, 
Break  the  blue  ice, — through  the  water  with 
a  cold  cheek  she  will  stare  ! 

'  As  thou  changest,  growing  taller, 

She  will  change,  through  all  the  years — 
Well  thou  may'st  thy  Sister  call  her, 
She  will  share  thy  hopes  and  fears, 
She  will  wear  the  face  thou  wearest,  sweet 
in  smiles  and  sad  in  tears. 

'Ah,  my  darling  !  may'st  thou  ever 

See  her  look  as  kind  and  bright, 
Find  her  woeful-featured  never 

In  the  pleasant  orchard  light — 
May  you  both  be  glad  and  happy,  when 
your  golden  locks  are  white  ! ' 

Golden  locks  ! — what,  these  grow  hoary  ? 

Wrinkles  mar  a  face  like  this  ? 
Break  the  charm  of  the  old  story 

With  the  magic  of  a  kiss — 
Here  thou  art,  my  deep-eyed  darling,  as 

thou  wast, — a  thing  of  bliss. 

Does  she  love  thee  ?  does  she  miss  thee  ? 

Thy  sweet  Sister  in  the  well  ? 
Does  she  mourn  because  I  kiss  thee — 

Fearing  what  she  cannot  tell  ? — 
For  you  both  are  link'd  together  by  a  truth 

and  by  a  spell. 

Darling,  be  my  love  and  duty 
Judged  by  her!  and  prove  me  so  ; 

When  upon  her  mystic  beauty 

Thou  perceivest  shame  or  woe  ; 
When  she  changes  into  sadness,  may  God 
judge,  and  strike  me  low  ! 

Thou  and  thy  sweet  Sister  move  in 

A  diviner  element, 
Clear  as  light,  more  sweet  to  love  in 

Than  my  world  so  turbulent  ; 
Holy  waters  bathe  and  bless  you,  peaceful, 
bright,  and  innocent. 


And  within  those  eyes  of  azure 
See  !  my  baby  image  beam, 
Deep  blue  with  reflected  pleasure 

From  some  heavenly  dome  of  dream, 
Crystal  currents  of  thy  spirit  swim  around 
it,  glance,  and  gleam. 

O  my  fountain  of  a  maiden, 

Be  thy  days  for  ever  blest, 
Dancing  in  mine  eyes  love-laden, 

Lying  smiling  on  my  breast, — 
Brighter  than  a  fount,  in  motion,   deeper 

than  a  well,  at  rest. 


SERENADES. 

SLEEP  on  thine  eyes,  peace  in  thy  breast, 
White-limb'd  lady,  be  at  rest ! 
Near  the  room  wherein  you  lie, 
Broods  the  owl  with  luminous  eye. 

Midnight  comes  ;  all  fair  things  sleep, 
While  all  dark  things  vigil  keep  ; 
Round  thy  bed  thy  scented  bower 
Foldeth  like  a  lily-flower. 

All  so  still  around  thee  lies, 

Peace  in  thy  breast,  sleep  on  thine  eyes  ! 

All  without  is  dark  as  death, 

But  thy  lover  wakeneth. 

Underneath  thy  bower  I  pace, 
Star-dew  sparkling  on  my  face  ; 
All  around  me,  swift  of  flight, 
Move  the  creatures  of  the  night. 

Hark,  the  great  owl  cries  again 
With  an  echo  in  the  brain  ; 
And  the  dark  earth  in  her  sleep 
Stirs  and  trembles,  breathing  deep. 

Sleep  on  thine  eyes,  peace  in  thy  breast  1 
Fold  thy  hands  and  take  thy  rest ; 
All  the  night,  till  morning  break, 
Spirits  walk  and  lovers  wake  ! 


Sleep  sweet,  beloved  one,  sleep  sweet ! 

Without  here  night  is  growing, 
The  dead  leaf  falls,  the  dark  boughs  meet, 

And  a  chill  wind  is  blowing. 


198 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Strange  shapes  are  stirring  in  the  night, 

To  the  deep  breezes  wailing, 
And  slow,  with  wistful  gleams  of  light, 

The  storm-tost  moon  is  sailing. 

Sleep  sweet,  beloved  one,  sleep  sweet ! 

Fold  thy  white  hands,  my  blossom  ! 
Thy  warm  limbs  in  thy  lily  sheet, 

Thy  hands  upon  thy  bosom. 
Though  evil  thoughts  may  walk  the  dark, 

Not  one  shall  near  thy  chamber  ; 
But  shapes  divine  shall  pause  to  mark, 

Singing  to  lutes  of  amber. 

Sleep  sweet,  beloved  one,  sleep  sweet  ! 

Though,  on  thy  bosom  creeping, 
Strange  hands  are  laid,  to  feel  the  beat 

Of  thy  soft  heart  in  sleeping. 
The  brother  angels,  Sleep  and  Death, 

Stoop  by  thy  couch  and  eye  thee  ; 
And  Sleep  stoops  down  to  drink  thy  breath, 

While  Death  goes  softly  by  thee  ! 


IN  THE   GARDEN. 

HE. 

SEEST  thou  two  waifs  of  cloud  on  the  dim 

blue 

Wandering  in  the  melancholy  light? 
Methinks  they  seem  like  spirits  bright  and 

true, 
Blending  their  gentle  breaths,  and  born 

anew, 
In  the  still  rapture  of  this  heavenly 

night ! 

See  !  how  the  flowering  stars  their  path  be- 
strew, 
Till  the  moon  turns,  and  smiles,  and  looks 

them  through, 
And  breathes  upon  them,  when  with 

bosoms  white 

They  blend  on  one  another,  and  unite. 
Now  they  are  gone,  they  vanish  from  our 

view, 
Lost    in    that     radiance     exquisitely 

bright!  .  .  . 

O  love  !  my  love  !  methinks  that  thou  and  I 

Resemble  those  thin  waifs  in  Heaven 

astray ; 
We  meet,  we  blend,  grow  bright  I 


SHE. 

And  we  must  die  ! 


Nay,  sweet,  for  Love  can  never  pass 
away  ! 

SHE. 

Are  they  not  gone?  and,  dear,  shall  we  not 

go? 
O  Love  is  Life,  but  after  Life  comes 

Death ! 

HE. 
No  flower,  no  drop  of  rain,   no  flake  of 

snow, 

No  beauteous  thing  that  blossometh  below, 
May  perish,  though  it  vanish  ev'n  as 

breath  ! 
The  bright  moon  drinks  those  wanderers  of 

the  west, 
They  melt  in  her  warm  breathing,  and  are 

blest. 

We  see  them  not,  but  in  that  light  divine 
Upgather'd,  they  are  happy,  and  they  shine : 
Not  lost,  but  vanish'd,  grown  ev'n  unawares 
A  part  of  a  diviner  light  than  theirs  ! 

NIGHTINGALES  SING. 

Through  our  throats  the  raptures  rise, 

In  the  scented  air  they  swim  ; 

From  the  skies, 

With  their  own  love-lustre  dim, 

Gaze  innumerable  eyes  ! — 

Sweet,  O  sweet, 

Thrills  the  music  from  each  throat, 

Thick  and  fleet, 

Note  on  note, 

Till  in  ecstasy  we  float ! 

SHE. 

How  vast  looks  Heaven  !  how  solitary  and 

deep! 
Dost  thou  believe  that  Spirits  walk  the 

air, 
Treading  those  azure  fields,  and  downward 

peep 
With  great  sad  eyes  when  Earth  is  fast 

asleep? 

HE. 

One  spirit,  at  least,  immortal  LOVE,  is 
there  I 


IN  THE   GARDEN. 


199 


A   SHOOTING  STAR. 

Swift  from  my  bliss,  in  the  silence  above, 
I  slip  to  thy  kiss,  O  my  star  !  O  my  love  ! 

SPIRITS   IN  THE  LEAVES. 

Who  are  these  twain  in  the  garden-bowers? 
They  glide  with  a  rapture  rich  as  ours. 
Touch  them,  feel  them,  and  drink  their  sighs, 
Brush  their  lips  and  their  cheeks  and  eyes  ! 

How  their  hearts  beat !  how  they  glow  ! 
Brightly,  lightly,  they  come  and  go  ; 
Upward  gazing  they  look  in  bliss, 
Save  when  softly  they  pause,  to  kiss. 

Kiss  them  also,  and  share  the  light 

That  fills  their  breathing  this  golden  night. 

Touch  them !    clasp  them !    round    them 

twine, 
Their  lips  are  burning  with  breath  divine. 

HE. 

Love,  tread  this  way  with  rosy  feet ; 
And  resting  on  the  shadowy  seat 
'Neath  the  laburnum's  golden  rain, 
Watch  how  with  murmurous  refrain 
The  fountain  leaps,  its  basin  dark 
Flashing  with  many  a  starry  spark. 
With  such  a  bliss,  with  such  a  light, 
With  such  an  iteration  bright, 
Our  souls  upbubbling  from  the  clay, 
Leap,  sparkle,  blend  in  silvern  spray, 
Gleam  in  the  Moon,  and,  falling  still, 
Sink  duskily  with  tremulous  thrill, 
Together  blent  with  kiss  and  press, 
In  dark  surcease  of  happiness. 
Yet  there  they  pause  not,  but,  cast  free 
After  deep  pause  of  ecstasy, 
Heavenward  they  leap,  together  clinging, 
And  like  the  fountain  flash,  upspringing  ! 

THE  FOUNTAIN  LEAPING. 

Higher,  still  higher  ! 

With  a  trembling  and  gleaming 

Still  upward  streaming, 
In  the  sparkling  fire 
Of  a  dim  desire  ; 
Still  higher,  higher, 

With  a  bright  pulsation 

Of  aspiration, — 
Higher ! 

Higher,  still  higher ! 

To  the  lights  above  me  ; 


They  gleam,  they  love  me, 
They  beckon  me  nigher, 
And  my  waves  aspire, 
Still  higher,  higher  ; — 

But  I  fall  down  failing, 

Still  wildly  wailing — 
Higher  ! 

NIGHTINGALES  SING. 

Deeper  now  our  raptures  grow ; 

Softlier  let  our  voices  croon  ! 

Yet  more  slow, 

Let  our  happy  music  flow, 

Sweet  and  slow,  hush'd  and  low, 

Now  the  dark  cloud  veils  the  Moon. 

Sweet,  O  sweet ! 

Watch  her  as  our  wild  hearts  beat !  .  . 

See  !  she  quits  the  clasping  cloud, 

Forth  she  sails  on  shining  feet, 

Smiling,  with  her  bright  head  bow'd ! 

Pour  the  living  rapture  loud  1 

Thick  and  fleet, 

Sweet,  O  sweet, 

Now  the  notes  of  rapture  crowd  I 

SHE  (to  herself}. 

And  this  is  Love  ! — Until  this  hour 
I  never  lived  ;  but  like  a  flower 
Close  prest  i'  the  bud,  with  sleeping  senses 
I  drank  the  dark  dim  influences 
Of  sunlight,  moonlight,  shade,  and  dew. 
At  last  I  open,  thrilling  thro' 
With  Love's  strange  scent,  which  seemeth 

part 

Of  the  warm  life  within  my  heart, 
Part  of  the  air  I  breathe  .  .  .  O  bliss  I 
Was  ever  night  so  sweet  as  this  ? 
It  is  enough  to  breathe,  to  be, 
As  if  one  were  a  flower,  a  tree, 
A  leaf  o'  the  bough,  just  stirring  light 
With  the  warm  breathing  of  the  night ! 

SPIRITS   IN  THE  LEAVES. 

Whisper !  what  are  they  doing  now  ? 
He  is  kissing  her  white,  white  brow, 
Turning  it  softly  to  the  light, 
Like  a  beautiful  tablet  marble  white. 

The  Moon  is  shining  upon  it — lo ! 
Whiter  it  is  than  driven  snow. 
He  kisseth  again  and  speaketh  gay ; 
Whisper,  whisper  !  what  doth  he  say? 


20C 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


For  ever  and  ever  !  for  ever  and  ever ! 
As  the  fount  that  upleaps,  as  the  breezes 
that  blow, 

Love  thou  me  ! 

For  ever  and  ever,  for  ever  and  ever, 
While  the  nightingales  sing  and  the  rose 
garlands  glow, 

Love  I  thee  ! 
For  ever  and  ever,  with  all  things  to  prove 

us, 
In  this  world,  in  that  world  that  bendeth 

above  us, 

Asleeping,  awaking,  in  earth,  as  in  Heaven, 
By  this  kiss,  this  other,  by  thousands  un- 

given, 
By  the  hands  which  now  touch  thee,  the 

arms  that  enfold  thee, 
By  the  soul  in  my  eyes  that  now  swoons  to 

behold  thee, 

By  starlight,  by  moonlight,  by  scented  rose- 
blossoms, 
By  all  things    partaking  the  joy  of  our 

bosoms, 
By  the  rapture  within  us,  the  rapture  around 

us, 
By  God  who  has  made  us  and  Love  who 

hath  crown1  d  us, 
One  sense  and  one  soul  we  are  blent,  ne'er 

to  sever. 

For  ever  and  ever !  for  ever  and  ever  ! 
More  kisses  to  seal  it  *  *  *  *  For  ever  and 

ever  ! 

THE  WOOD  ECHOES. 

For  ever  and  ever  ! 


THE  ASRAL 
(PROLOGUE  TO  THE  CHANGELING.) 

'Tis  midnight,  and  the  light  upon  my  desk 
Burns  dim  and  blue,  and  flickers  as  I  read 
The  gold-clasp'd  tome,  whose  stained  yellow 

leaves 
Feel  spongy  to  the  touch  yet  rough  with 

dust, 

When  Clari,  from  her  chamber  overhead, 
Her  bright  hair  flowing  brighter  from  the 

brush, 
Steals  in,  and  peeps,   and  sits  upon  my 

knee, 


And  winds  her  gentle  arms  around   my 

neck, 

Then  sidelong  peeping,  on  the  page  antique 
Rains  her  warm  looks,  and  kisses  as  I  read. 

'  Before  man  grew  of  the  four  elements, 
The  Asrai  grew  of  three — fire,  water,  air — 
Not  earth,— they  were  not  earthly.     That 

was  ere 

The  opening  of  the  golden  eye  of  day  : 
The  world  was  silvern, — moonlight  mystical 
Flooded  her  silent  continents  and  seas,— 
And  in  green  places  the  pale  Asrai  walked 
To  deep  and  melancholy  melody, 
Musing,  and  cast  no  shades. 

'  These  could  not  die 
As  men  die ;  Death  came  later  ;  pale  yet 

fair, 

Pensive  yet  happy,  in  the  lonely  light 
The  Asrai  wander'd,   choosing    for   their 

homes 

All  gentle  places— valleys  mossy  deep, 
Star-haunted  waters,  yellow  strips  of  sand 
Kissing  the  sad  edge  of  the  shimmering 

sea, 

And  porphyry  caverns  in  the  gaunt  hill- 
sides, 
Frosted  with  gems  and  dripping  diamond 

dews 

In  mossy  basins  where  the  water  black 
Bubbled  with  wondrous  breath.    The  world 

was  pale, 
And  these  were  things  of  pallor ;  flowers 

and  scents, 

All  shining  things,  came  later  ;  later  still, 
Ambition,  with  thin  hand  upon  his  heart, 
Crept  out  of  night  and  hung  the  heights  of 

heaven 
With  lights  miraculous  ;   later  still,   man 

dug 

Out  of  the  caves  the  thick  and  golden  glue 
That  knits  together  the  stone  ribs  of  earth  ; 
Nor  flowers,  nor  scents,  the  pallid  Asrai 

knew, 

Nor  burning  aspiration  heavenward, 
Nor  blind  dejection  downward  under  earth 
After  the  things  that  glitter.     Their  desires 
Shone  stationary— gentle  love  they  felt 
For  one  another— in  their  sunless  world 
Silent  they  walked  and  mused,  knowing  no 

guile, 
With  lives  that  flow'd  within  as  quietly 


THE  ASRAI— THE   CHANGELING. 


201 


As  rain-drops  dripping  with  bright  measured 

beat 
From  mossy  cavern-eaves.' 

O  Love  !  My  love  ! 
How  thy  heart  beats  !  how  the  fond  kisses 

rain  ! 

We  cannot  love  like  those— ours  is  a  pain, 
A  tumult,  a  delirium,  a  dream. 
O  little  one  of  four  sweet  elements, 
Fire  on  thy  face,  and  moisture  in  thine 

eyes, 
Thy  white  breast  heaving  with  the  balmy 

air, 

And  in  thy  heart  and  on  thy  kissing  mouth 
The  warmth,   the  joy,    the   impulse,    and 

delight 

Of  the  enamour'd  gentle-hearted  earth 
Bright  with  the  flowery  fulness  of  the  sun  ! 


THE    CHANGELING. 
A  LEGEND  OF  THE  MOONLIGHT. 

THE  ASRAI. 

'  O  LET  him  smile  as  Mortals  may, 

And  be  like  Mortals  fair, 
And  let  him  tread  the  wondrous  way 

Of  golden  earth  and  air  ; 
And  let  the  sun's  celestial  ray 
Shine  on  his  sense  from  day  to  day, 

Far  from  these  waters  wan, 
Strew  flowers  and  fruits  upon  his  way, 

And  make  him  blest,— like  Man  ! ' 

Who  prays?   Who  cries?  Who  is  kneeling 

by  night 

Down  in  the  Mere  in  the  pale  moonlight, 
Where  pensive  Spirits  come  and  go 
In  gleaming  raiments  as  white  as  snow, 
Walking  with  silent  and  solemn  tread 
That  darkling  bottom  of  silvern  sands? 
Like  an  azure  heaven,  far  overhead, 
The  surface  smooth  of  the  Mere  expands, 
Strewn  thick  with  glimmers  of  starry  dew 
Reflected  down  from  the  ether  blue 
Those  Spirits  behold  not. 

Strangely  fair, 
With  flashing  fingers  and  flowing  hair, 


Her  face  upturned  in  the  rippling  rays, 
Down  in  the  Mere  the  Spirit  prays  ; 
And  on  her  bosom  there  waking  lies 
Her  Asrai  babe  with  glittering  eyes, — 
Silent,  as  white  as  a  marble  stone, 
It  lies,  but  utters  a  feeble  moan. 

For  ere  of  the  earth,  and  the  air,  and  the 

dew, 

And  the  fire,  that  fuseth  all  these  to  one, 
Bright  Man  was  fashion'd,  and  lived  and 

grew, 

And  walked  erect  in  the  shining  sun, 
When  the  sun  itself  was  eyeless  and  dark, 
And  the  earth  was  wrapped  in  a  starry 

night, 
And  the  only  lights  that  the  eyes  might 

mark 
Were  the  cold  still  spheres  of  a  moon 

snow-white  ; 

Ev'n  then,  of  the  dew  and  the  crystal  air, 
And  the  moonray  mild,  were  the  Asrai 

made ; 
And  they  walked  and  mused  in  the  midnight 

air, 
But  they  had  no  souls  and  they  cast  no 

shade. 
They  knew  no  hunger  and  mad  desire, 

No  bitter  passion  of  mortal  birth, 
For  they  were  not  fashion'd,  like  Man,  from 

fire, 
They  were  not  leavened,  like  Man,  with 

earth- 
Cold  they  were  as  the  pale  moonbeam, 
Cold  and  pure  as  a  vestal's  dream. 
Serene  they  dwelt  in  a  silvern  world, 
Where    throbbing    waters    stole   dusky- 
white, 

Washing  the  feet  of  dark  capes  star-pearl'd. 
And  arch'd  by  rainbows  of  rippling  light. 

And  when  to  the  paean  of  living  things, 
To    the    cry    of   the    new-born    worlds 

around, 
Out  rolled    the  Sun,   like    a  shape    with 

wings, 
Mighty    with    odour,    and    flame,    and 

sound  ; 
As  the  dim  dew  shaken  from  Earth's  dark 

hair, 
While  she  woke  and  gladdened  supremely 

fair, 


2O2 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


In  the  glorious  gleam  of  the  natal  ray, 

The  pallid  Asrai  faded  away  ! 

And  when  with  the  sunlight's  fiery  breath 

Bright  Man  was    moulded,   and    stood 

supreme, 
Royal,  the  monarch  of  life  and  death, 

Shadow'd  with  slumber  and  dower'd  with 

dream, 

Their  trace  was  lost ;  on  the  human  shore 
Those  sad  pale  Spirits  were  seen  no  more  ! 

.  .  .  Yet  far  away  in  the  darkened  places, 
Deep  in   the  mountains  and  under  the 

meres, 
A  few  fair  Spirits  with  sunless  faces 

Lingered  on  with  the  rolling  years, 
And  listened,  listened,  luminous-eyed, 
While  the  generations  arose  and  died, 
And  watch'd,  watch'd,  with  sad  surprise, 
The  gleaming  glory  of  earth  and  skies, 
Beyond  their  darkness.    But  ever,  by  night, 
When  the  moon  arose  with  her  gentle  light, 
The  Asrai,  hidden  from  human  seeing, 
Drank  the  moonlight  that  was  their  being, — 
Stirring  about  with  a  stealthy  tread 
On  the  mountain  side,  on  the  water's  bed, 
Or  singing  low  and  clasping  hands, 
Shadowless  moving  on  shining  sands. 

But  Earth  with  the  snows  of  time  was  gray, 

When  one  of  this  race  so  meek  and  mild, 
An  Asrai  mother,  knelt  down  to  pray, 

To  heaven  uplifting  her  little  child  ; 
For  the  Asrai  with  passionless  chilly  kiss 

Still  mingled  darkly  as  mortals  do, 
And  on  their  bosoms  bare  babes  like  this, 

With  hair  soft  golden  and  eyes  of  blue, 
Like  the  eyes  of  stars  ! 

And  she  cried  that  night — 
'  Blessed  indeed  is  the  beauteous  light, 
And  blessed  are  those  sun-phantoms  fair, 
For  the  light  turns  golden  on  their  hair, 
And  their  faces  are  flowers  and  their  breath 

is  a  fire, 

And  they  move  about  with  a  sweet  desire 
In  the  amber  day  ;  and  each  night  they  lie 
Quietly  smiling  beneath  the  sky, 
Till  the  rubies  of  morning  again  are  shaken 
Upon  their  eyelids,  and  they  awaken  ! ' 
And  she  prayed    moreover— '  Could    this 

thing  be  ! 
Could  the  child  I  nurse  upon  my  knee, 


My  own  pale  little  one,  blend  with  clay, 
And  grow  a  thing  of  divinest  day, 
Like  those  fair  mortals  ! ' 

Then  out  of  the  air 

There  came  in  answer  unto  her  prayer 
A  gentle  voice  ;  and  it  whispered,  '  Rise  ! 
Steal  from  the  water,  and  under  the  skies 
Find  a  dead  Mother,  and  on  her  bed 
A  new-born  Babe  that  is  aho  dead ; 
Blend  thy  Babe  with  the  mortal  clay, 
And  the  thing  shall  be  as  thou  hast  prayed — 
Thy  Child  shall  walk  in  the  golden  day, 
Shall  find  a  Soul,  and  cast  a  Shade!' 

II. 

THE  CHANGELING'S  BIRTH. 

She  rises  up  from  the  depths  of  the  Mere 
And  floats  away  on  the  surface  clear, 
Like  a  swan  she    sails    to    the  shadowy 

sands, 

And  soon  on  the  moonlit  earth  she  stands. 
Moonbeam-like  in  the  moonbeams  bright, 

A  space  she  lingers  upon  the  shore, 
Then  steals  along  through  the  dusky  light 

Up  the  hill  and  across  the  moor. 
She  sees  a  light  that  flashes  afar 
Through  the  dark  like  a  crimson  star, 
Now  it  glimmers,  and  now  is  gone, 
For  shadows  come  and  go  thereon. 
It  comes  from  the  shepherd's  dwelling  lone, 
Rudely  fashioned  of  turf  and  stone  ; 
And  the  sheep  dog  barks,  and  the  sheep  o' 

the  fold 

Huddle  together  in  wintry  cold  ; 
But  within  the  hut  the  light  burns  low, 
And  mortals  whispering  come  and  go  ; 
For  there  on  the  wretched  truckle  bed 
The  wife  of  the  shepherd  lieth  dead, 
And  her  babe  new  born  by  her  side  doth  lie 
Closing  its  eyes  with  a  last  faint  cry. 

.  .  .  The  Spirit  trembles,  as  on  her  hair 
Flasheth  the  firelight's  crimson  glare  ; 
Trembles  and  fades  ;  but  she  draweth  near, 
Eager  to  see,  eager  to  hear. 
Close  to  the  window-pane  she  flees, 
And  looketh  in  ! 

In  the  room  she  sees, 
None  stir :  'tis  empty  ;  but  on  the  bed 
The  child  and  mother  are  lying  dead. 


THE   CHANGELING. 


203 


The  light  burns  low  ;  the  clock  ticks  slow  ; 
Spectral  shadows  come  and  go  ; 
From  the  room  without  a  murmur  creeps 
Of  whispered  words,  and  one  that  weeps. 

O  Moon  !  still  Moon  ! 

Sweet  and  white  as  a  lily  in  June, 

In  the  garden  of  heaven  bend  thy  brows 

And  waft  thy  breathing  into  the  house  ! 

For  the  pallid  creature  of  thy  breath 

The  cottage  window  openeth, 

And  stealeth  in.     Like  a  moonray  bright, 

Holding  her  own  babe  in  her  hands, 
And  bending  above  that  bed,  snow  white 

She  stands  ! 

Find  a  dead  Mother,  and  on  her  bed 
A  new-born  Babe  that  is  also  dead. 
Blend  thy  Babe  with  the  mortal  clay 
And  the  thing  shall   pass   as    thou  hast 

prayed  : 

Thy  child  shall  walk  in  the  golden  day, 
Shall  find  a  Soul,  and  shall  cast  a  Shade. 

O  Moon  !  still  Moon  ! 

The  wonderful  spell  is  woven  soon  ! 

Breathe  again  on  her  hair  and  eyes, 

As  she  creepeth  out,  and  under  the  skies 

Listens  !     O  hark  !  from  within  is  blown 

A  child's  low  murmur,  an  infant's  moan  ! 

Shadows  darken  across  the  pane, 

For  the  peasants  gather  wondering-eyed — 
The  child  of  the  shepherd  lives  again, 

Smiling  awake  by  the  corpse's  side. 

III. 
His  MORTAL  LIFE. 

Weary  to  tell  and  weary  to  hear 

Were  the  mortal  life  for  many  a  year 

Of  that  changeling  child ;  but  he  grew  on 

earth, 

Knowing  nought  of  his  mystic  birth, 
And  ever  waxed  more  strong  and  fair, 
With  the  glory  of  daylight  on  eyes  and 

hair. 

And  the  poor  pale  Mother  Spirit  smiled 
From  far  away  on  her  happy  child, 
Thinking,    '  He    thrives,   and  the    golden 

hours 
Fill  his  lap  with  their  fruit  and  flowers, 


And  he  feels   the  sun,  and  he  drinks  its 

light, 

Growing  on  to  a  mortal's  height.' 
And  ever  nightly  unseen  she  came 
And  kiss'd  him  asleep,    to  her  heart's 

desire, 
Though  his  breath  met  hers  with  the  fever'd 

flame 
Of  a  fatal  fire. 

She  watched  him  still  with  a  hunger  keen, 

Stronger  than  mortal  mothers  know  ; 
She  hover'd  o'er  him,  unheard,  unseen, 

Wherever  his  feet  might  come  and  go, 
In  the  sunless  hours  ;  and  all  the  day 
She  marked  his  motion  from  far  away, 
And  heard  his  voice,  through  the  shine  and 

the  shower, 
Like  the  voice  of  a  bird  ! 

But  there  came  an  hour 
When  the  Shepherd  who  called  him  son  lay 

dead, 
And  when  he  was  buried  the  Changeling 

said — 
1 1  wi  1  take  my  staff,  and  will  leave  this 

place, 

And  seek  new  fortunes — God  give  me  grace 
That  I  prosper  well  ! '    And  away  he  went, 
Humming  an  old  tune,  well-content, 
Hopeful  and  fearless,  merry  and  gay, 
Over  the  hills  and  far  away  ; 
And  all  alone ! 

IV. 

His  SORROW  AND  SIN. 

Yet  not  alone, 

For  step  by  step,  and  stone  by  stone, 
Where'er  he  rested — fleet  as  wind, 
His  Spirit  Mother  came  behind  ; 
Creeping  to  darkness  all  the  day, 
But  ever  in  the  cold  moonray 
Finding  his  footprints,  kissing  them, 
And  often  where  his  raiment  hem 
Had  brushed  the  warm  dew  from  the  grass, 
Strewing  pale  flowers.     Thus  did  she  pass 
Till  brazen  city  gates  by  night 
She  saw  him  enter.     Still  and  white, 
She  followed. 

Weary  to  tell  and  hear 
Were  the  Changeling's  doings  for  many  a 
year. 


204 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


But  the  Spirit  saw  as  the  time  fled  on 
That  his  cheek  grew  paler,  his  bright  eye 

shone 
Less  happy  and  bright ;  for  he  dwelt,  be- 

h.ld  ! 

Where  men  and  women  were  heaping  gold 
And  counting  gems  ;  and  a  yellow  gleam 
Shadowed    the    sight    and    darkened    the 

dream 

Of  his  gentle  face  ;  and  by  lamplight  now 
He  read  and  pondered  with  pallid  brow 
O'er  parchment  scrolls,  and  tomes  which  told 
Of  mystic  manners  of  finding  gold. 

Then,  even  then,  across  him  came 

So  strange  a  change,  so  fierce  a  flame, 

That  he,  forgetting  fever-fraught 

All  things  but  that  one  thing  he  sought, 

Was  wrapt  all  round  with  light  of  dread  ! 

And  ever  tossing  on  his  bed 

He  named  a  woman's  name,  and  cried 

That  God  would  bring  her  to  his  side, 

His  and  none  other's  ;  and  all  day 

He  fevered  in  the  hot  sunray 

Behind  her  footprints.     Ne'ertheless 

His  thirst  was  turned  to  bitterness, 

His  love  to  pain  ;  and  soon  by  night 

The  Spirit  saw  him  standing  white, 

Transfigured  in  a  dumb  despair, 

And  his  wild  shriek  rose  on  the  air, 

While  from  a  far  off  bridal  room 

Came  wafted  through  the  summer  gloom 

The  sound  of  harps  and  lutes  ! 

Then  came 

Long  days  and  nights  of  sin  and  shame. 
For  in  his  agony  the  Man 
Kept  hideous  orgies,  and  his  wan 
Wild  features  gleamed  in  ghastly  mirth, 
While  naked  women-snakes  of  earth 
Twined  round  him  fawning  ;  and  he  drew 
Dark  curtains,  shutting  out  the  blue, 
And  the  sweet  sun  ;  and  all  the  nights, 
In  feverish  flash  of  ghastly  lights, 
He  slew  pure  sleep  with  sounds  of  sin. 
Then  the  pale  Mother  peeping  in 
Beheld  his  mad  distorted  face, 
And  knew  it  not  I 

Time  sped  apace, 

And  lo !  he  changed,  and  forth  again 
He  fared,  amid  a  mighty  train, 
A  Warrior  now  ;  and  to  the  sound 
Of  martial  strains  his  head  swam  round, 


His  heart  kept  time  ;  while  overhead 
Strange  suns  of  sorrow  glimmered  red. 

.  .  .  Weary  to  tell  and  weary  to  hear 
The  Changeling's  doings  for  many  a  year  ! 
Weary  to  tell  how  the  Spirit  dim 
Moaning  in  misery  followed  him, 
For  whene'er  she  gazed  on  his  features  now, 
On  the  bearded  chin  and  the  branded  brow, 
She  shuddered,  and  often,  when  she  crept 
Into  the  tent  where  the  warrior  slept, 
She  saw  on  his  hand  a  blood-red  stain. 

And  she  kissed  the  stain  again  and  again 
With  her  cold  pure  lips,— but  it  would  nut 
go! 

v. 
THE  BATTLE-FIELD. 

One  night  she  walked  with  a  foot  of  snow 
Thro'  a  battle-field  ;  and  the  Moon  on  high 
Swam  thro'  the  film  of  a  starry  sky, 
And  the  breath  of  the  Moon,  like  hoar-frost 

shed, 

Gleamed  on  the  dreadful  drifts  of  dead. 
Then  she  saw  him  standing  amid  it  all 
Living  and  bloody,  ghastly  and  tall, 
With  a  hand  on  his  moaning  horse's  mane ! 
And  his  face  was  awful  with  hate  and  pain, 
And  his  eyes  were  mad— for  beneath  him 

lay, 

Quivering  there  in  the  pale  moonray, 
A  wounded  foe — while  with  red  right  hand 
He  held  in  the  air  a  bloody  brand 
To  cleave  him  down  ! 

Before  his  look 

One  moment  the  Spirit  Mother  shook  ; 
He  could  not  hear  her,  he  could  not  see, 
But  she  shriek'd  aloud  in  her  agony  ! 
He  glared  all  round  him  like  one  in  dread 
Of  a  voice  from  heaven  or  a  ghost  from  the 

dead, 
And  he  sheathed  his  sword  with  a  shudder 

soon, 

Alone  in  the  light  of  the  lonely  Moon  .  .  . 
O  Moon  !  immortal  Moon  I 

VI. 

THE  ABBOT  PAUL. 

Fourscore  years  have  come  and  gone, 
Since  the  Asrai  Mother  knelt  down  and 
prayed, 


THE   CHANGELING. 


205 


Since  the  boon  was  gained,  and  her  little 
one 

Found  a  soul  and  cast  a  shade  ; 
And  now  by  the  side  of  the  same  still  Mere, 

A  mighty  Monastery  stands, 
And  morn  and  even  its  bell  rings  clear, 

Tinkling  over  the  silver  sands  ; 
And  the  Asrai  as  they  come  and  go 
Hear  the  sounds  in  the  waters  below, 
And  ever  to  them  the  sweet  sounds  seem 
Like  distant  music  heard  in  a  dream, 
And  they  pause  and  smile,  and  they  mur- 
mur '  Hark,' 
With  uplifted  fingers  ! 

Old,  old,  old, 

With  hoary  hair  and  beard  snow-white, 
With  vacant  vision  and  senses  cold, 
Crawling  out  to  feel  the  light — 
Like  a  man  of  marble,  gaunt  and  tall, 
Heavy  with  years,  is  the  Abbot  Paul. 
Fourscore  years  have  slowly  shed 
Their  snows  on  the  mighty  Abbot's  head — 
But  not  so  white  are  his  thoughts  within, 
That  tell  of  a  long  dark  life  of  sin. 
Ever  he  totters  and  grows  to  the  ground, 
And  ever  by  night  he  hears  a  sound 
Of  voices  that  whisper  his  name  and  weep  ; 
And  he  starteth  up  in  his  nightly  sleep 
With  a  touch  like  a  hand  upon  his  hair, 
And  he  looketh  around  in  a  sick  despair, 
But  he  see'th  nought.    And  he  prayeth  low  : 
•  Pity  me,  God  ;  and  let  me  go 
Out  of  the  sunlight, — shaking  away 
This  form  fire-fashioned  out  of  clay  ! ' 
And  often  his  dark  beads  counteth  he  : 
'  Maria  Madonna,  come  for  me  ! 
For  I  am  sick  of  the  sinful  light. ' 

Now  ever  he  readeth  low  each  night 

In  a  parchment  scroll,  with  pictures  quaint 

Of  many  a  shining-headed  Saint 

Smiling,  each  "mid  his  aureole, 

O'er  the  dark  characters  of  the  scroll  ; 

And  ever  when  he  totters  abroad 

He  bears  this  parchment  scroll  of  God 

Against  his  heart  ;  or  in  the  sun 

He  spells  its  letters  one  by  one 

With  dim  dark  eyes,  as  he  creepeth  slow. 

.  .  'Tis  a  summer  even.     The  sun  sinks 

low, 

And  the  light  of  its  solemn  setting  lies 
Golden  and  crimson  on  the  skies, 


Purple  over  the  brow  of  the  hill. 
And  violet  dim  on  the  waters  still 
Of  the  glassy  Mere.     In  the  zenith  blue, 
Already,  dim  as  drops  of  dew, 
Twinkle  the  stars ! 

In  his  great  arm-chair, 
Carried  out  to  the  open  air, 
On  the  edge  of  a  promontory  sweet, 
With  the  waters  rippling  at  his  feet, 
Sits  the  Abbot  Paul ;  and  his  fingers  cold 
Still  grip  that  parchment  holy  and  old. 
Behind  his  chair  there  standeth  grim 
With  cold  black  eyeball  fix'd  on  him, 
A  serving-monk. 

The  air  is  chill. 

The  light  is  low,  but  he  readeth  still, 
Mumbling  the  sacred  words  aloud  ; 
And  ever  his  weary  neck  is  bowed 
At  the  names  of  Mary  and  every  Saint ; 
While  ever  fainter  and  more  faint 
His  voice  doth  grow,  as  he  murmureth  : 
'  Holy  of  Holies,  drink  my  breath  ! 
For  I  am  sick  of  the  sinful  light ! ' 

.  .  .  The  sun  hath  sunken  out  of  sight 
In  the  cloudy  west  afar  away — 
Chilly  it  groweth,  chilly  and  gray — 
But  who  is  this  with  steps  so  still 
Coming  yonder  across  the  hill  ? 
Over  the  peaks  with  a  silvern  tread 
Flashing,  then  rising  overhead 
In  the  open  heaven  of  a  golden  June  ? 

O  Moon  !  white  Summer  Moon  ! 

Down  the  mountain  and  into  the  Mere 
The  pale  ray  falleth,  so  silvern  clear, 
And  it  creepeth  silently  over  all, 
Till  it  shineth  full  on  the  Abbot  Paul, 
Where  he  sits  and  prays.     O  see  !  O  see ! 
Sadder,  stiller,  groweth  he, 
But  his  eyes  still  burn  with  a  dying  gleam  ; 
While  faint,  far  off,  as  in  a  dream, 
He  hears  a  murmur,  he  sees  a  light. 

Silently,  coldly,  marble  white, 
Pale  and  pure  as  the  moonray  dim, 
Smiling,  outstretching  her  arms  to  him, 
His  Spirit  Mother  upriseth  now  ! 

A  light  not  human  is  on  his  brow, 
A  light  no  human  is  in  his  eyes — 
Fold  by  fold,  like  a  dark  disguise, 


206 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


The  mortal  dress  is  dropping  away  ; 
Silently,  slowly,  sinks  the  clay  ; 
His  eyes  see  clear  by  some  mystic  spell, 
And  he  knoweth  the  gentle  presence  well. 

'  O  Mother  !  Mother  1 ' 

She  answereth  low  : 

'  Come  from  the  gleam  of  the  golden  glow, 
From  the  wicked  flush  of  the  fever'd  strife, 
Back  to  the  mystical  moonlight  life  ! 
Thy  heart  is  heavy,  thy  sense  is  drear, 
Weary  with  wandering  many  a  year — 
Come  from  the  sorrows  of  the  Sun  ! 
My  own  pale  darling,  my  little  one  ! ' 

1 0  Mother  !  Mother  ! ' 

Her  arms  so  dim 

Are  round  his  neck,  and  she  kisseth  him  ! 
She  smoothes  his  hair  with  a  gentle  hand, 
And  she  sings  a  song  of  the  moonlight  land. 
He  listens  and  listens,  but  still  in  a  dream 
Looking  afar  off  his  dark  eyes  gleam, 
Beyond  her,  through  her,  at  some  strange 

thing 
There  on  the  hilltops,  beckoning  ! .  .  . 

Dead  in  his  chair  lies  the  Abbot  Paul, 
But  a  Shape  stands  by  him,  stately  and  tall, 
And  another  Shape  upon  her  knee 
Is  looking  up  in  her  agony. 

'  O  Mother  !  Mother  ! '  the  tall  Shape  cries, 
Gazing  on  her  with  gentle  eyes — 
'  O  Mother,  Mother,  I  cannot  stay — 
A  voice  is  summoning  me  away — 
Up  the  shining  track  of  the  sun, 

Past  the  sphere  of  the  spectral  moon, 
Further,  higher,  my  path  must  run — 

I  have  found  a  Soul,  and  thou  hast  thy 

boon ; 

And  the  Soul  is  a  scourge,  and  the  scourge 
a  fire, 


And  it  shoots  me  onward  to  strive  and 

soar, 
For  this  is  the  end  of  thy  heart's  desire — 

I  rest  not,  stay  not,  for  evermore. 
O  kiss  me,  Mother,  before  I  go  ! ' 

They  kiss  each  other,  those  shapes  of  snow, 
They  cling  in  the  moonlight,  they  kiss  each 

other— 
'Child,  my  child!'  and  'Mother!  Mother!' 

Silently,  swiftly,  through  the  air 
Riseth  one  like  a  meteor  fair, 
Riseth  one  with  a  last  wild  cry, 

While  the  other  sinks  in  a  silent  swoon, 
And  whiter,  brighter,  over  the  sky, 

Burneth  the  light  of  that  night  of  June  ! 

O  Moon  I  sad  Summer  Moon  ! 


TO   CLARI. 

WITH   THE   PRECEDING  POEM. 

THOUGH  on  the  dullest  dust  we  tread, 
Our  days  are  closed  about  with  dread  ; 
Before  our  footsteps  and  behind 
Burns  the  white  Light  that  keeps  us  blind. 

If  Life  were  all,  if  Love  were  clay, 

If  the  great  Dream  could  pass  away, 

If  thou  or  I  could  cease  to  be, 

That  Light  would  fade,  and  we  should  see  \ 

Yea,  see  and  know,  and  swiftly  pass, 
Like  shapes  from  a  magician's  glass  ; — 
But  girt  by  godhead  we  remain, 
Though  human  systems  wax  and  wane. 

Enough  !  we  fear  not,  thou  and  I, 
Knowing  we  were  not  born  to  die, 
Because,  at  every  step  we  tread, 
Our  days  are  closed  about  with  dread. 


MEG  BLANE. 


207 


North  Coast,  and  other  Poems. 

(1867-68.) 


MEG  BLANE. 

i. 

STORM. 

•  LORD,  hearken  to  me  ! 

Save  all  poor  souls  at  sea  ! 
Thy  breath  is  on  their  cheeks, — 

Their  cheeks  are  wan  wi'  fear  ; 
Nae  man  speaks, 

For  wha  could  hear  ? 
The  wild  white  water  screams, 

The  wind  cries  loud  ; 
The  fireflaught  gleams 

On  tattered  sail  and  shroud  ! 
Under  the  red  mast-light 

The  hissing  surges  slip  ; 
Thick  reeks  the  storm  o'  night 

Round  him  that  steers  the  ship,— 
And  his  een  are  blind, 

And  he  kens  not  where  they  run. 
LORD,  be  kind ! 

Whistle  back  Thy  wind, 
For  the  sake  of  CHRIST  Thy  Son  ! ' 

,  .  .  And  as  she  prayed  she  knelt  not  on 

her  knee, 
But,  standing  on  the  threshold,  looked  to 

Sea, 
Where  all  was  blackness  and  a  watery 

roar, 
Save  when  the  dead  light,  nickering  far 

away, 
Flash'd  on   the  line  of  foam  upon  the 

shore, 
And  showed  the  ribs  of  reef  and  surging 

bay! 

There  was  no  sign  of  life  across  the  dark, 
No  piteous  light  from  fishing-boat   or 

bark, 
Albeit  for  such  she  hush'd  her  heart  to 

pray. 
With  tattered  plaid  wrapt  tight  around  her 

form, 

She  stood  a  space,  spat  on  by  wind  and 
rain, 


Then,  sighing  deep,  and  turning  from  the 

Storm, 
She  crept  into  her  lonely  hut  again. 

'Twas  but  a  wooden  hut  under  the  height, 

Shielded  in  the  black  shadow  of  the  crag : 
One  blow  of  such  a  wind  as  blew  that 

night 

Could  rend  so  rude  a  dwelling  like  a  rag. 
There,  gathering  in  the  crannies  overhead, 
Down  fell  the  spouting  rain  heavy  as  lead, — 

So  that  the  old  roof  and  the  rafters  thin 
Dript  desolately,  looking  on  the  surf, 
While  blacker  rain-drops  down  the  walls  of 

turf 
Splash'd    momently   on    the    mud-floor 

within. 
There,  swinging  from  the  beam,  an  earthen 

lamp 
Waved  to  the  wind  and  glimmered  in  the 

damp, 

And  shining  in  the  chamber's  wretched- 
ness, 
Illumed  the  household  things  of  the  poor 

place, 

And  flicker'd  faintly  on  the  woman's  face 
Sooted  with  rain,  and  on  her  dripping 
dress. 

A  miserable  den  wherein  to  dwell, 
And  yet  she  loved  it  well. 

1 0  Mither,  are  ye  there  ? ' 
A  deep  voice  filled  the  dark  ;  she  thrill' d  to 

hear; 
With  hard  hand  she  pushed  back  her  wild 

wet  hair, 
And  kissed  him.     '  Whisht,  my  bairn,  for 

Mither's  near.' 
Then  on  the  shuttle  bed  a  figure  thin 

Sat  rubbing  sleepy  eyes  : 
A  bearded  man,  with  heavy  hanging  chin, 
And  on  his  face  a  light  not  over-wise. 
•  Water  ! '  he  said  ;  and  deep  his  thirst  was 

quelled 
Out  of  the  broken  pitcher  she  upheld, 


208 


NORTH  COAST,  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


,  rough 


And  yawning  sleepily,  he  gazed  around, 
And  stretched  his  limbs  again,  and  soon 

slept  sound. 
Stooping,  she  smooth'd  his  pillow  'neath 

his  head, 
Still  looking  down  with  eyes  liquid  and 

mild, 
And  while  she  gazed,  softly  he  slumbered, 

That  bearded  man,  her  child. 
And  a  child's  dreams  were  his  ;  for  as  he 

lay, 

He  uttered  happy  cries  as  if  at  play, 
And  his  strong  hand  was  lifted  up  on 

high 

As  if  to  catch  the  bird  or  butterfly  ; 
And  often  to  his  bearded  lips  there  came 

That  lonely  woman's  name  ; 
And  though  the  wrath  of  Ocean  roared 
so  near, 

That  one  sweet  word 
Was  all  the  woman  heard, 
And  all  she  cared  to  hear. 

Not  old  in  years,  though  youth  had  passed 

away, 
And  the  thin  hair  was  tinged  with  silver 

gray, 

Close  to  the  noontide  of  the  day  of  life, 
She  stood,  calm   featured  like  a  wedded 

wife; 

And  yet  no  wedded  wife  was  she,  but  one 
Whose  foot  had  left  the  pathways  of  the 

just, 
Yet  meekly,  since  her  penance  had  been 

done, 
Her  soft  eyes  sought  men's  faces,  not  the 

dust. 

Her  tearful  days  were  over :  she  had  found 
Firm  footing,  work  to  do  upon  the  ground  ; 
The  Elements  had  welded  her  at  length 
To  their  own  truth  and  strength. 


This  woman  was  no  slight  and  tear-strung 

thing, 

Whose  easy  sighs  fall  soft  on  suffering, 
But  one  in  whom  no  stranger's  eyes  would 

seek 

For  pity  mild  and  meek. 
Man's  height  was  hers— man's  strength  and 

will  thereto, 
Her  shoulders  broad,  her  step  man-like 

and  long  ; 


'Morig  fishermen  she  dwelt,  a  rude, 

crew, 
And  more  than  one  had  found  her  hand 

was  strong. 

And  yet  her  face  was  gentle,  though  the  sun 
Had  made  it  dark  and  dun  ; 
Her  silver- threaded  hair 
Was  combed  behind  her  ears  with  cleanly 

care; 

And  she  had  eyes  liquid  and  sorrow-fraught, 
And  round  her  mouth  were  delicate  lines, 

that  told 
She  was  a  woman   sweet  with  her  own 

thought, 
Though  built  upon  a  large,  heroic  mould. 

Who  did  not  know  Meg  Blane  ? 
What  hearth  but  heard  the  deeds  that  Meg 
had  done  ? 

What  fisher  of  the  main 
But  knew  her,  and  her  little-witted  son  ? 
For  in  the  wildest  waves  of  that  wild  coast 
Her  b'ack  boat  hover'd  and  her  net  was  tost, 
And  lonely  in  the  watery  solitude 
The  son  and  mother  fished  for  daily  food. 
When  on  calm  nights  the  herring  hosts 

went  by, 
Her  frail  boat  followed  the  red  smacks 

from  shore 

And  steering  in  the  stern  the  man  would  lie 
While  Meg  was  hoisting  sail  or  plying 

oar ; 

Till,  a  black  speck  against  the  morning  sky, 
The  boat  came  homeward,  with  its  silver 

store. 
And   Meg  was    cunning    in   the  ways  of 

things, 

Watching  what  every  changing  lineament 
Of  wind  and  sky  and  cloud  and   water 

meant, 
Knowing  how  Nature   threatens  ere   she 

spring. 
She  knew  the  clouds  as  shepherds  know 

their  sheep, 
To  eyes    unskilled    alike,    yet    different 

each  ; 

She  knew  the  wondrous  voices  of  the  Deep  ; 
The  tones  of  sea-birds  were  to  her  a 

speech. 
Much  faith  was  hers  in  GOD,  who  was  her 

guide  ; 

Courage  was  hers  such  as  GOD  gives  to 
few, 


MEG  BLANE. 


209 


For  she  could  face  His  terrors  fearless-eyed, 
Yet  keep  the  still  sane  woman's  nature 

true. 

Lives  had  she  snatched  out  of  the  waste 
by  night, 

When  wintry  winds  were  blowing  ; 
To  sick-beds  sad  her  presence  carried 

light, 
When  (like  a  thin  sail  lessening  out  of 

sight) 
Some  rude,  rough  life  to  the  unknown  Gulf 

was  going ; 
For  men  who  scorned  a  feeble  woman's 

wail 
Would  heark  to  one  so  strong  and  brave  as 

she, 

Whose  face  had  braved  the  lightning  and 
the  gale, 

And  ne'er  grown  pale, 
Before  the  shrill  threat  of  the  murderous 
Sea. 

Yet  often,  as  she  lay  a-sleeping  there, 
This  woman  started  up  and  blush'd  in 

shame, 
Stretching  out  arm   embracing  the  thin  air, 

Naming  an  unknown  name  ; 
There  was  a  hearkening    hunger  in  her 

face 

If  sudden  footsteps  sounded  on  her  ear  ; 
And  when  strange  seamen  came  unto  the 

place 

She  read  their  faces  in  a  wretched  fear ; 
And  finding  not  the  object  of  her  quest, 
Her  hand  she  held  hard  on  her  heaving 

breast, 

And  wore  a  white  look,  and  drew  feeble 
breath, 
Like  one  that  hungereth. 

It  was  a  night  of  summer,  yet  the  wind 
Had  wafted  from  God's  wastes  the  rain- 
clouds  dank, 
Blown  out  Heaven's  thousand  eyes  and  left 

it  blind, 
Though  now  and  then  the  Moon  gleamed 

moist  behind 

The  rack,  till,  smitten  by  the  drift,  she 
sank. 

But  the  Deep  roared  ; 

Sucked  to  the  black  clouds,  spumed  the 
foam-fleck' d  main, 


While  lightning  rent  the  storm-rack  like 

a  sword, 

And  earthward  rolled  the  gray  smoke  of  the 
Rain. 

'Tis  late,  and  yet  the  woman  doth  not  rest, 
But  sitteth  with    chin    drooping    on    her 

breast : 

Weary  she  is,  yet  will  not  take  repose  ; 
Tired  are  her  eyes,   and  yet  they  cannot 

close  ; 

She  rocketh  to  and  fro  upon  her  chair, 
And  stareth  at  the  air  ! 

Far,  far  away  her  thoughts  were  travelling : 
They  could  not  rest — they  wandered  far 

and  fleet, 

As  the  storm-petrels  o'er  the  waters  wing, 
And  cannot  find  a  place  to  rest  their 

feet; 
And  in  her  ear  a  thin  voice  murmured, 

'  If  he  be  dead — be  dead  ! ' 
Then,  even  then,  the  woman's  face  went 

white 
And  awful,  and  her  eyes  were  fixed  in 

fear, 

For  suddenly  all  the  wild  screams  of  night 
Were  hushed  :  the  Wind  lay  down  ;  and 

she  could  hear 
Strange  voices  gather  round  her    in  the 

gloom, 

Sounds  of  invisible  feet  across  the  room, 
And  after  that  the  rustle  of  a  shroud, 

And  then  a  creaking  door, 
And  last  the  coronach,  full   shrill  and 

loud, 
Of  women  clapping  hands  and  weeping  sore. 

Now  Meg  knew  well  that  ill  was  close  at 
hand, 

On  water  or  on  land, 
Because  the  Glamour  touched  her  lids  like 

breath, 
And  scorch'd  her  heart :  but  in  a  waking 

swoon, 

Quiet  she  stayed, — not  stirring, — cold  as 
death, 

And  felt  those  voices  croon  ; 
Then  suddenly  she  heard  a  human  shout, 
The  hurried  falling  of  a  foot  without, 
Then  a  hoarse  voice — a  knocking  at  the 
door — 

4  Meg,  Meg!   A  Ship  ashore!' 
P 


210 


NORTH  COAST,    AND   OTHER   POEMS. 


Now  mark  the  woman  !    She  hath  risen 

her  height, 
Her  dripping  plaid  is  wrapt  around  her 

tight, 

Tight  clenched  in  her  palm  her  fingers  are 
Her  eye  is  steadfast  as  a  fixed  star. 
One  look  upon  her  child — he  sleepeth  on — 
One  step  unto  the  door,  and  she  is  gone : 
Barefooted  out  into  the  dark  she  fares, 
And  comes  where,  rubbing  eyelids  thick 

with  sleep, 
The    half-clad    fishers    mingle   oaths  and 

prayers, 
And  look  upon  the  Deep. 

.  .  .  Black  was  the  oozy  lift, 
Black  was  the  sea  and  land  ; 
Hither  and  thither,  thick  with  foam  and 
drift, 

Did  the  deep  Waters  shift, 
Swinging  with  iron  clash  on  stone  and 

sand. 

Faintlier  the  heavy  Rain  was  falling, 
Faintlier,  faintlier  the  Wind  was  calling, 
With  hollower  echoes  up  the    drifting 

dark! 
While  the  swift  rockets  shooting  through 

the  night 
Flash'd   past    the    foam-flecked  reef  with 

phantom  light, 
And  showed  the  piteous  outline  of  the 

bark, 
Rising  and  falling  like  a  living  thing, 

Shuddering,  shivering, 
While,  howling  beastlike,  the  white  breakers 

there 

Spat  blindness  in  the  dank  eyes  of  despair. 
Then  one  cried,  '  She  has  sunk ! ' — and  on 

the  shore 
Men    shook,   and    on    the  heights  the 

women  cried ; 

But,  lo  !  the  outline  of  the  bark  once  more  ! 
While  flashing  faint  the  blue  light  rose 

and  died. 
Ah,  GOD,  put  out  Thy  hand  !  all  for  the 

sake 

Of  little  ones,  and  weary  hearts  that  wake 
Be  gentle  !  chain  the  fierce  waves  with  a 

chain  ! 

Let  the  gaunt  seaman's  little  boys  and  girls 
Sit  on  his  knee  and  play  with  his  black 
curls 

Yet  once  again  I 


And  breathe  the  frail  lad  safely  through  the 

foam 

Back  to  the  hungry  mother  in  her  home.! 
And  spare  the  bad  man  with  the  frenzied 

eye; 
Kiss  him,   for    CHRIST'S  sake,   bid    Thy 

Death  go  by — 
He  hath  no  heart  to  die  1 

Now  faintlier  blew  the  wind,  the  thin  rain 

ceased, 
The  thick  cloud  cleared  like  smoke  from 

off  the  strand, 

For,   lo !    a  bright  blue  glimmer    in    the 
East,— 

GOD  putting  out  His  hand  ! 
And  overhead  the  rack  grew  thinner  too, 

And  through  the  smoky  gorge 
The  Wind  drave  past  the  stars,  and  faint 
they  flew 

Like  sparks  blown  from  a  forge  ! 
And  now  the  thousand  foam-flames  o"  the 
Sea 

Hither  and  thither  flashing  visibly ; 
And  gray  lights  hither  and  thither  came 

and  fled, 
Like  dim  shapes  searching  for  the  drowned 

dead; 
And  where  these  shapes  most  thickly  glim- 

mer'd  by, 
Out  on  the  cruel  reef  the  black  hulk 

lay, 

And  cast,  against  the  kindling  eastern  sky, 
Its    shape    gigantic    on    the    shrouding 
spray. 

Silent  upon  the  shore,  the  fishers  fed 

Their  eyes  on  horror,  waiting  for  the 

close, 

When  in  the  midst  of  them  a  shrill  voice 
rose  : 

'  The  boat !  the  boat ! '  it  said. 
Like  creatures  startled  from  a  trance,  they 

turned 
To  her  who  spake  ;  tall  in  the  midst  stood 

she, 

With  arms  uplifted,   and  with  eyes  that 
yearned 

Out  on  the  murmuring  Sea. 
Some,     shrugging    shoulders,    homeward 

turned  their  eyes, 

And    others   answered    back   in    brutal 
speech  j 


MEG  BLANE. 


211 


But  some,  strong-hearted,  uttering  shouts 

and  cries, 
Followed    the    fearless  woman    up    the 

beach. 
A   rush   to    seaward — black    confusion — 

then 

A  struggle  with  the  surf  upon  the  strand — 
'Mid  shrieks  of  women,  cries  of  desperate 

men, 

The  long  oars  smite,   the    black    boat 
springs  from  land ! 

Around  the  thick  spray  flies  ; 
The  waves  roll  on  and  seem  to  overwhelm. 
With  blowing  hair  and  onward-gazing 

eyes 

The  woman  stands  erect,   and  grips  the 
helm.  .  .  . 

Now  fearless  heart,  Meg  Blane,  or  all  must 

die! 
Let  not  the  skill'd  hand  thwart  the  steadfast 

eye 
The  crested  wave  comes  near, —crag-like  it 

towers 
Above   you,    scattering    round    its    chilly 

showers : 

One  flutter  of  the  hand,  and  all  is  done  ! 
Now  steel  thy  heart,  thou  woman-hearted 
one  ! 

Softly  the  good  helm  guides  ; 
Round  to  the  liquid  ridge  the  boat  leaps 

light,— 

Hidden  an  instant, — on  the  foaming  height, 
Dripping  and  quivering  liks  a  bird,  it 

rides. 

Athwart  the  ragged  rift  the  Moon  looms 
pale, 

Driven  before  the  gale, 
And    making    silvern    shadows    with    her 

breath, 

•  Where  on  the  sighing  Sea  it  shimmereth  ; 
And,   lo  !  the  light  illumes   the  reef ;  'tis 

shed 
Full  on  the  wreck,  as  the  dark  boat  draws 

nigh. 

A  crash  ! — the  wreck  upon  the  reef  is  fled  ; 
A  scream  ! — and  all  is  still  beneath  the 

sky, 

Save  the  wild  waters  as  they  whirl  and 
cry. 


II. 
DEAD  CALM. 

DAWN  ;  and  the  Deep  was  still.     From  the 

bright  strand, 

Meg,  shading  eyes  against  the  morning  sun, 
Gazed  seaward.     After  trouble,  there  was 

peace. 

Smooth,    many-coloured  as  a  ring-dove's 

neck 
Stretch'd  the  still  Sea,  and  on  its  eastern 

rim 

The  dewy  light,  with  liquid  yellow  beams, 
Gleamed  like  a  sapphire.     Overhead,  soft 

airs 
To  feathery  cirrus  flecked  the  lightening 

blue, 
Beneath,  the  Deep's  own  breathing  made  a 

breeze ; 
And  up  the  weedy  beach  the  blue  waves 

crept, 
Falling  in  one  thin  line  of  cream-white  foam. 

Seaward  the  woman  gazed,  with  keen  eye 

fixed 

On  a  dark  shape  that  floated  on  the  calm, 
Drifting  as  seaweed  ;  still  and  black  it  lay, — 
The  outline  of  a  lifeless  human  shape  : 
And  yet  it  was  no  drowned  mariner, 
For  she  who  looked  was  smiling,  and  her 

face 
Looked  merry ;   still  more  merry  when  a 

boat, 
With  pale  and  timorous  fishermen,    drew 

nigh  ; 
And  as  the  fearful  boatmen  paused  and 

gazed, 
A  boat's  length  distant,  leaning  on   their 

oars, 
The  shape  took  life — dash'd  up  a  dripping 

head, 
Screaming — flung  up  its  limbs  with  flash  of 

foam, 

And,  with  a  shrill  and  spirit-thrilling  cry, 
Dived  headlong,  as  a  monster  of  the  main 
Plunges  deep  down  when  startled  on  its 

couch 

Of  glassy  waters.    'Twas  the  woman's  child, 
The  witless  water-haunter — Angus  Blane. 

For  Angus  Blane,  not  fearful  as  the  wise 
Are  fearful,  loved  the  Ocean  like  a  thing 


212 


NORTH  COAST,  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


Born  amid  algae  of  the  slimy  ooze. 

A  child,   he  sported  on    its    sands,   and 

crept 

Splashing  with  little  feet  amid  the  foam  ; 
And  when  his  limbs  were  stronger,  and  he 

reached 
A  young  man's  stature,  the  great  Gulf  had 

grown 

Fair  and  familiar  as  his  mother's  face. 
Far  out  he  swam,   on    windless  summer 

days, 

Floating  like  fabled  mermen  far  from  land, 
Plunging  away  from  startled  fishermen 
With  eldrich  cry  and  wild  phantasmic  glare, 
And  in  the  untrodden  halls  below  the  sea 
Awaking  wondrous  echoes  that  had  slept 
Since    first    the   briny    Spirit  stirred  and 

breathed. 

On  nights  of  summer  in  the  gleaming  bay 
He  glistened  like  a  sea-snake  in  the  moon, 
Splashing  with  trail  of  glistening  phosphor- 
fire, 

And  laughing  shrill  till  echo  answer'd  him, 
And  the  pale  helmsman  on  the  passing 

boat, 

Thinking  some  Demon  of  the  waters  cried, 
Shivered  and  prayed.     His  playmates  were 

the  waves, 
The  sea  his  playground.     On  his  ears  were 

sounds 

Sweeter  than  human  voices.     On  his  sense, 
Though  sadden'd  with  his  silent  life,  there 

stole 

A  motion  and  a  murmur  that  at  times 
Brake  through  his  lips,  informing  witless 

words 

With  strange  sea-music.     In  his  infancy, 
Children  had  mocked  him  :  he  had  shunned 

their  sports, 

And  haunted  lonely  places,  nurturing 
The  bright,  fierce,  animal  splendour  of  a 

soul 

That  ne'er  was  clouded  by  the  mental  mists 
That  darken  oft  the  dreams  of  wiser  men. 
Only  in  winter  seasons  he  was  sad  ; 
For  then  the  loving  Spirit  of  the  Deep 
Repulsed  him,  and  its  smile  was  mild  no 

more ; 
And  on  the  strand  he  wandered ;  from  dark 

caves 
Gazed  at  the  Tempest ;  and  from  day  to 

day 
Moaned  to  his  mother  for  the  happy  time 


When  swifts  are  sailing  on  the  wind  o"  the 

South, 
And  summer  smiles  afar  off  through  the 

rain, 
Bringing  her  golden  circlet  to  the  Sea. 

And  as  the  deepening  of  strange  melody, 
Caught  from  the  unknown  shores  beyond 

the  seas, 

Was  the  outspreading  of  his  life  to  her 
Who  bare  him  ;  yea,  at  times,  the  woman's 

womb 

Seemed  laden  with  the  load  of  him  unborn, 
So  close  his  being  clave  unto  her  flesh, 
So  link'd  was  his  strange  spirit  with  her 

own. 
The  faint  forebodings  of  her  heart,  when 

first 

She  saw  the  mind-mists  in  his  infant  eyes, 
And  knew  him  witless,  turned  as  years  wore 

on 

Into  more  spiritual,  less  selfish  love 
Than  common  mothers  feel ;  and  he  had 

power 

To  make  her  nature  deeper,  more  alive 
Unto  the  supernatural  feet  that  walk 
Our  dark  and  troubled  waters.      Thence 

was  born 
Much  of  her  strength  upon  the  Sea,  her 

trust 
In  the  Sea's  MASTER  !  thence,  moreover, 

grew 

Her  faith  in  visions,  warnings,  fantasies, 
Such  as  came  ever  thronging  on  her  heart 
When  most  her  eyes  looked  inward — to  the 

place 
Fraught  with  her  secret  sorrow. 

As  she  gazed, 

Smiling,  the  bearded  face  of  Angus  rose 
Nearer  to  shore,  and  panting  in  the  sun, 
Smiled  at  the  fishers.  Then  the  woman 

turned, 
And  took,  with  man-like  step  and  slow,  a 

path 
That,  creeping  through  the  shadows  of  the 

cliffs, 
Wound  to  the  clachan.   In  the  clear,  bright 

dawn 
Lay  Thornock  glittering,  while,  thin  and 

blue, 

Curl'd  peat-smoke  from  the  line  of  fisher-huts 
That  parted  the  high  shingle  from  the  land, 


MEG  BLANE. 


213 


The  tide  was  low  :  amid  the  tangled  weeds 
The  many-coloured  rocks  and    sparkling 

pools, 
Went  stooping  men  and  women,  seeking 

spoil, 
Treasure  or  drift-wood  floating  from  the 

wreck  ; 
Beyond,  some  stood  in  fish-boats,  peering 

down, 
Seeking  the  drowned  dead  ;  and,   near  at 

hand, 
So  near,   a  tall  man  might  have  waded 

thither 
With  a  dry  beard,  the  weedy  reef  loom'd 

red, 

And  there  the  white-fowl  ever  and  anon 
Rose  like  a  flash  of  foam,  whirl'd  in  the 

air, 

And,  screaming,  settled.     But  not  thither- 
ward 
Now  look'd  Meg  Blane.     Along  the  huts 

she  went — 
Among  the  rainy  pools  where  played  and 

cried 
Brown  and  barefooted  bairns— among  the 

nets 
Stretch'd  steaming  in   the  sun — until  she 

reached 

The  cottage  she  was  seeking.    At  the  door, 
Smoking  his  pipe,  a  grizzly  Fisher  sat, 
Looking  to  sea.      With  him    she    spake 

awhile, 
Then,   with  a  troubled  look,   entered  the 

hut, 
And  sought  the  inner  chamber. 

Faint  and  pale 
Light  glimmer'd  through  a  loop-hole  in  the 

wall, 
A  deep  white  streak  across  the  sand-strewn 

floor, 

All  else  in  shadow  ;  and  the  room  was  still, 
Save  for  a  heavy  breathing,  as  of  one 
In  quiet  sleep.     Within  the  wall's  recess, 
On  the  rude  bed  of  straw  the  sleeper  lay, 
His  head  upon  his  arm,  the  sickly  light 
Touching  his  upturn'd  face ;  while  Meg 

drew  near, 

And  gazed  upon  him  with  a  stranger's  eyes, 
Quiet  and  pitying.     Though  his  sleep  was 

sound, 
His  dreams  were  troubled.     Throwing  up 

his  arms, 


He  seemed  to  beckon,  muttering  ;  then  his 
teeth 

Clench'd  tight,  a  dark  frown  wrinkled  on 
his  brow, 

And  still  he  lay  like  one  awaiting  doom  ; 

But  suddenly,  in  agony  supreme, 

He  breathed  like  one  who  struggles,  sinks, 
and  drowns ; 

Strangling,  with  wavering  arms  and  quiver- 
ing limbs, 

And  screaming  in  his  throat,  he  fought  for 
life; 

Till,  half-awakening  with  the  agony, 

His  glazed  eyes  he  opened,  glaring  round, 

While  Meg  drew  shivering  back  into  the 
shade  ; 

Again,  with  deeper  breath,  as  if  relieved, 

He  dropp'd  his  bearded  face  upon  his  arm, 

And  dream'd  again. 

Then  Meg  stole  stilly  forth, 
And  in  the  outer  chamber  found  a  lamp, 
And  lit  the  same  in  silence,  and  returned 
On  tiptoe  to  the  sleeper.    As  she  went, 
White  as  a  murdered  woman's  grew  her 

face, 
Her  teeth  were  clench'd  together  ;  and  her 

eyes 
With  ring    on  ring  of   widening  wonder 

glared 

In  fever' d  fascination  upon  him 
Who  slumbered.     Closer  still  she  crept, 
Holding  the  lamp  aloft,  until  his  breath 
Was  hot  upon  her  cheek,— so  gaunt,  so 

white, 
It  seemed  her  time  was  come.     Yet  in  her 

look 

Was  famine.  As  one  famish'd  looks  on  food 
After  long  agony,  and  thinks  it  dream, 
She    gazed    and   gazed,   nor  stirred,   nor 

breathed,  nor  lived, 

Save  in  her  spirit's  hunger  flashing  forth 
Out  of  her  face  ;  till  suddenly  the  man, 
Half-opening  his  eyes,  reached  out  his  arms 
And  gript  her,  crying,   '  Silence  !   pray  to 

GOD! 
She's  sinking ! '  then,  with  shrill  and  awful 

groan, 
Awakened. 

And  the  woman  would  have  fled, 
Had  he  not  gript  her.     In   her  face   he 
gazed, 


214 


NORTH  COAST,   AND   OTHER  POEMS. 


Thrusting  one  hand  into  his  silvered  hair, 
Seeking    to    gather    close    his    scattered 

thoughts, 
And  his  eye  brightened,  and  he  murmured 

low, 
•Where  am  I?    Dead  or  living?    Ah,  I 

live ! 
The  ship?  the  ship?'     Meg  answered  not, 

but  shrank 

Into  the  shadow  ;  till  she  saw  the  mists 
Pass  from  his  bearded  face  and  leave  it 

clear, 
And  heard  his  voice  grow  calmer,  measured 

now 
By  tranquil  heart-beats.     Then  he  asked 

again, 
'The  ship?      How    many    live  of    those 

aboard  ? ' 
And  when    she  answered    he    alone  was 

saved, 
He  groaned  ;  but  with  a  sailor's  fearless 

look, 
'  Thank  GOD  for  that ! '  he  said  ;  '  and  yet 

He  might 
Have  spared  a  better  man.     Where  am  I, 

friend?' 
1  On  the  north  coast, '  said  Meg,  '  upon  the 

shore 
At  Thornock.' 

Could  the  seaman,  while  she  spake, 
Have  marked  the  lurid  light  on  that  pale 

face, 
All  else,— the  Storm,  the  terrible  fight  for 

life,— 

Had  been  forgotten  ;  but  his  wearied  eye 
Saw  dimly.     Grasping  still  her  quivering 

wrist, 
He  question'd  on ;  and,  summoning  strength 

of  heart, 
In  her  rude  speech  she  told  him  of  the 

storm : 
How  from  the  reef  the  rending  Ship  had 

rolled 
As  aid  drew  nigh  ;  how,  hovering  near  its 

tomb, 

The  fishers  from  the  whirling  waters  dragged 
Two  drowned  seamen,  and  himself,  a  corpse 
In  seeming ;  how  by  calm  and  tender 

care, 
They  wound  his  thin  and  bloody  thread  of 

life 
Out  of  the  slowly -loosening  hands  of  Death. 


in. 
A  TROUBLED  DEEP. 

THEN,  with  strange   trouble  in  her  eyes, 

Meg  Blane 

Stole  swiftly  back  unto  her  hut  again, 
Like    one   that   flyeth   from  some  fearful 

thing ; 

Then  sat  and  made  a  darkness,  covering 
Her  face  with  apron  old,  thinking  apart ; 
And  yet  she  scarce  could  think,  for  ache  of 

heart, 

But  saw  dead  women  and  dead  men  go  by, 
And  felt  the  wind,  and  heard  the  waters  cry, 
And  on  the  waters,  as  they  washed  to  shore, 
Saw  one  Face  float  alone  and  glimmer  hoar 
Through  the  green  darkness  of  the  breaking 

brine. 

And  Meg  was  troubled  deep,  nor  could 
divine 

The  wherefore  of  her  trouble,  since  'twas 
clear 

The  face  long  wearied  for  at  last  was  near, 

Since  all  her  waiting  on  was  at  an  end. 

Ay,  Meg  was  dull,  and  could  not  compre- 
hend 

How  GOD  put  out  His  breath  that  day,  and 
blew 

Her  lover  to  her  feet  before  she  knew, 

Yet  misted  the  dull  future  from  her  sight ; 

Wherefore  she  stared  stark  down  on  her 
delight 

As  on  a  dead  face  washing  in  from  sea. 

But  when  she  understood  full  certainly 

The  thing  had  come  according  to  her 
prayer, 

Her  strength  came  back  upon  her  unaware, 

And  she  thank'd  GOD,  albeit  the  pleasure 
seemed 

Less  absolute  a  bliss  than  she  had  dreamed 

When  it  was  a  sweet  trouble  far  away  ; 

For  she  was  conscious  how  her  hair  was 
gray, 

Her  features  worn,  her  flesh's  freshness 
gone, 

Through  toiling  in  the  sun  and  waiting  on ; 

And  quietly  she  murmur'd,  weeping  not, 

'  Perchance— for  men  forget — he  hath  for- 
got!' 

And  two  long  days  she  was  too  dazed 

and  weak 
To  step  across  the  sands  to  him,  and  speak; 


MEG  BLANE. 


But  on  the  third  day,  pale  with  her  intent, 
She  took  the  great  hand  of  her  son,  and 

went, 

Not  heeding  while  the  little-witted  one, 
Mouth'd  at  the  sea  and  muttered  in  the  sun, 
And  firmly  stepping  on  along  the  shore, 
She  saw,  afar  off  at  the  cottage  door, 
The  figure  of  her  shipwrecked  mariner  ; 
When,  deeply  troubled  by  a  nameless  fear, 
She  lingered,  and  she  lingered,  pale  and 


Then,  coming  near,  she  noted  how  the 

man 

Sat  sickly,  holding  out  his  arm  to  please 
A  fisher  child  he  held  between  his  knees, 
Whose  eyes  looked  on  the  mighty  arm  and 

bare, 

Where  ships,  strange  faces,  anchors,  pic- 
tured were, 

Prick'd  blue  into  the  skin  with  many  a  stain; 
And,  sharply  marking  the  man's  face,  Meg 

Blane 
Was  cheered  and  holpen,  and  she  trembled 

less, 

Thinking,  '  His  heart  is  full  of  kindliness.' 
And,  feeling  that  the  thing  if  to  be  done 
Must  be  done  straight,  she  hastened  with 

her  son, 

And,  though  she  saw  the  man's  shape  grow- 
ing dim, 
Came  up  with  sickly  smile  and  spake  to 

him, 
Pausing  not,  though  she  scarce  could  hear 

or  see — 

1  Has  Angus  Macintyre  forgotten  me? ' 
And  added  quickly,  '  I  am  Maggie  Blane ! ' 

Whereat  the  man  was  smit  by  sudden  pain 
And  wonder — yea,  the  words  he  heard  her 

speak 

Were  like  a  jet  of  fire  upon  his  cheek  ; 
And,  rising  up  erect,  '  Meg  Blane ! '  he  cried, 
And,  white  and  chilly,    thrust  the  bairn 

aside, 

And  peered  upon  the  woman  all  amazed, 
While,  pressing  hard  upon  her  heart,  she 

ga^ed 
Blankly  at  the  dim  mist  she  knew  was  he. 

For  a  short  space  both  stood  confusedly, 
In  silence  ;  but  the  man  was  first  to  gain 
Calmness  to  think  and  power   to  speak 
again  ; 


And,   though  his  lips  were  bloodless  and 

prest  tight, 

Into  his  eyes  he  forced  a  feeble  light, 
Taking  her  shivering  hand,    naming  her 

name 
In  forced  kind  tones,   yet  with  a  secret 

shame ; — 
Nor  sought  to  greet  her  more  with  touch  or 

kiss. 

But  she,  who  had  waited  on  so  long  for  this, 
Feeling  her  hand  between  his  fingers  rest, 
Could  bear  no  more,   but  fell  upon  his 

breast, 
Sobbing  and  moaning  like  a  little  bairn. 

Then,  with  her  wild  arms  round  him,  he 

looked  stern, 

With  an  unwelcome  burden  ill  at  ease, 
While  her  full  heart  flowed  out  in  words 

like  these — 

'  At  last !  at  last !  O  Angus,  let  me  greet ! 1 
GOD  's  good  !  I  ever  hoped  that  we  would 

meet ! 

Lang,  lang  hae  I  been  waiting  by  the  Sea, 
Waiting  and  waiting,  praying  on  my  knee  ; 
And  GOD  said  I  should  look  again  on  you, 
And,  though  I  scarce  believed,  GOD'S  word 

comes  true, 

And  He  hath  put  an  end  to  my  distress  ! ' — 
E'en  as  she  spoke,  her  son  plucked  at  her 

dress, 

Made  fierce  grimaces  at  the  man,  and  tried 
To  draw  her  from  the  breast  whereon  she 

cried  ; 

But  looking  up,  she  pointed  to  her  child, 
And  look'd  into  her  lover's  eyes,  and  smiled. 
1  GOD  help  him,  Angus  !    'Tis  the  Bairn  !' 

she  said ; — 
Nor  noted  how  the  man  grew  shamed  and 

red, 

With  child  and  mother  ill  at  ease  and  wroth, 
And  wishing  he  were  many  a  mile  from  both. 

For  now  Meg's  heart  was  wandering  far 

away, 

And  to  her  soul  it  seemed  but  yesterday 
That,  standing  inland  in  a  heathery  dell, 
At  dead  of  night,  she  bade  this  man  fare- 
well, 

And  heard  him  swear  full  fondly  in  her  ear 
Sooner  or  late  to  come  with  gold  and  gear, 

1  To  greet ;  Anglice,  to  weep. 


216 


NORTH  COAST,  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


And  marry  her  in  church  by  holy  rite  ; 
And  at  the  memory  a  quiet  light, 
Rose-like  and  maiden,  came  upon  her  face, 
And  softened  her  tall  shape  to  nameless 

grace, 
As  warm  winds   blowing    on  a  birk-tree 

green 
Make  it  one  rippling  sheet  of  radiant  sheen. 

But  soon  from  that  remembrance  driven 

again 

By  the  man's  silence  and  his  pallid  pain, 
She  shivered  for  a  moment  as  with  cold, 
And  left  his  bosom,  looking  grieved  and 

old, 
Yet  smiling,  forcing  a  strange  smile,  and 

seeking 
For  tokens  in  his  face  more  sweet  than 

speaking. 
But  he  was  dumb,   and  with  a  pallid 

frown, 
Twitching  his  fingers  quick,  was  looking 

down. 
1  What  ails  thee,  Angus  ? '  cried  the  woman, 

reading 

His  face  with  one  sharp  look  of  interceding; 
Then,  looking  downward  too,  she  paused 

apart, 
With  blood  like  water  slipping  through  her 

heart, 

Because  she  thought,  '  Alas,  if  it  should  be 
That  Angus  cares  no  more  for  mine  and 

me, 

Since  I  am  old  and  worn  with  sharp  dis- 
tress, 

And  men  like  pretty  looks  and  daintiness  ; 
And  since  we  parted  twenty  years  have 

past, 
And  that,  indeed,  is  long  for  a  man's  love 

to  last ! ' 

But,  agonised  with  looking  at  her  woe, 
And  bent  to  end  her  hope  with  one  sharp 

blow, 
The  troubled  man,  uplifting  hands,  spake 

thus, 

In  rapid  accents,  sharp  and  tremulous : 
1  Too  late,  Meg  Blane  !  seven  years  ago  I 

wed 

Another  woman,  deeming  you  were  dead, — 
And  I  have  bairns ! '    And  there  he  paused, 

for  fear. 


As  when,  with  ghostly  voices  in  her  ear, 
While  in  her  soul,  as  in  a  little  well 
The  silver  moonlight  of  the  Glamour  fell, 
She  had  been  wont  to  hark  of  nights  alone, 
So  stood  she  now,  not  stirring,  still  as  stone, 
While  in  her  soul,  with  desolate  refrain, 
The  words,  '  Too  late/'  rang  o'er  and  o'ei 

again  ; 

Into  his  face  she  gazed  with  ghastly  stare  ; 
Then  raising  her  wild  arms  into  the  air, 
Pinching  her  face  together  in  sharp  fear, 
She    quivered  to   the    ground  without  a 

tear, 

And  put  her  face  into  her  hands,  and  thrust 
Her  hair  between  her  teeth,   and  spat  it 

forth  like  dust. 


And  though,  with  pity  in  his  guilty  heart, 
The  man  spake  on  and  sought  to  heal  her 

smart, 
She  heard  not,  but  was  dumb  and  deaf  in 

woe; 

But  when,  in  pain  to  see  her  grieving  so, 
Her  son  put  down  his  hand,  and  named  her 

name, 
And  whispered,    '  Mither  !  mither !  let  us 

hame ! ' 
She  seized  the  hand,  and  smoothed  her 

features  wan, 

And  rose  erect,  not  looking  at  the  man, 
But,  gazing  down,  moved  slowly  from  the 

spot. 

Over  this  agony  I  linger  not. 
Nor  shall  I  picture  how  on  that  sad  shore 
They  met  and  spoke  and  parted  yet  once 

more, 

So  calmly  that  the  woman  understood 
Her  hope  indeed  had  gone  away  for  good. 
But  ere  the  man  departed  from  the  place 
It  seemed  to  Meg,  contemplating  his  face, 
Her  love  for  him  had  ne'er  been  so  intense 
As  it  had  seemed  when  he  was  far  from 

thence  ; 

And  many  a  thing  in  him  seemed  little- 
hearted 
And  mean  and  loveless  ;  so  that  ere  they 

parted 

She  seemed  unto  her  sorrow  reconciled. 
And  when  he  went  away,  she  almost  smiled, 
But  bitterly,  then  turned  to  toil  again, 
And  felt  most  hard  to  all  the  world  of  men. 


fif£G  BLAtiE. 


IV. 

'And  the  Spirit  of  God  moved  upon  the  waters.' 

LORD,  with  how  small  a  thing 
Thou  canst  prop  up  the  heart  against  the 
grave  1 

A  little  glimmering 

Is  all  we  crave  ! 
The  lustre  of  a  love 

That  hath  no  being, 
The  pale  point  of  a  little  star  above 
Flashing  and  fleeing, 
Contents  our  seeing. 
The  house  that  never  will  be  built ;  the  gold 

That  never  will  be  told  ; 
The  task  we  leave  undone  when  we  are 

cold; 

The  dear  face  that  returns  not,  but  is  lying, 
Lick'd  by  the  leopard,  in  an  Indian  cave  ; 
The  coming  rest  that  cometh  not,  till,  sigh- 
ing, 

We  turn  our  tremulous  gaze  upon  the 
grave. 
And,  Lord,  how  should  we  dare 

Thither  in  peace  to  fall, 
But  for  a  feeble  glimmering  even  there — 

Falsest,  some  sigh,  of  all  ? 
We  are  as  children  in  Thy  hands  indeed, 
And  Thou  hast  easy  comfort  for  our  need, — 
The  shining  of  a  lamp,  the  tinkling  of  a 
bell, 

Content  us  well. 

And  even  when  Thou  bringest  to  our  eyes 
A  thing  long-sought,  to  show  its  worth- 

lessness, 
Anon  we  see  another  thing  arise, 

And  we  are  comforted  in  our  distress ; 
And,  waiting  on,  we  watch  it  glittering, 
Till  in  its  turn  it  seems  a  sorry  thing  ; 

And  even  as  we  weep 
Another  rises,  and  we  smile  again  ! 
Till,  wearied  out  with  watching  on  in  vain, 
We  fall  to  sleep. 

And  oft  one  little  light  that  looks  divine 
Is  all  some  strong  Soul  seeks  on  mortal 
ground  ; 

There  are  no  more  to  shine 
When  that  one  thing  is  found. 
If  it  be  worthless,  then  what  shall  suffice  ? 
The  lean  hand  grips  a  speck  that  was  a 
spark, 


The  heart  is  turned  to  ice, 

And  all  the  world  is  dark. 
Hard  are  Thy  ways  when  that  one  thing  is 

sought, 

Found,  touch'd,  and  proven  nought. 
Far  off  it  is  a  mighty  magic,  strong 

To  lead  a  life  along. 

But,  lo  !  it  shooteth  thitherward,  and  now 
Droppeth,   a   rayless    stone,    upon    the 

sod.— 

The  world  is  lost :    perchance  not    even 
Thou 

Survives!  it,  Lord  God  ! 

In  poverty,  in  pain, 
For  weary  years  and  long, 
One  faith,  one  fear,  had  comforted  Meg 
Blane, 

Yea,  made  her  brave  and  strong  ; 
A  faith  so  faint  it  seemed  not  faith  at  all, 
Rather  a  trouble  and  a  dreamy  fear, — 
A  hearkening  for  a  voice,  for  a  footfall, 
She  never  hoped  in  sober  heart  to  hear ; 
This  had  been  all  her  cheer  ! 
Yet  with  this  balm 
Her  Soul  might  have  slept  calm 
For  many  another  year. 
In  terror  and  in  desolation,  she 

Had  been  sustained, 
And  never  felt  abandoned  utterly 

While  that  remained. 
Lord,  in  how  small  and  poor  a  space  can 

hide 

The  motives  of  our  patience  and  our  pride,— 
The  clue  unto  the  fortunate  man's  distress, 
The  secret  of  the  hero's  fearlessness  ! 
What  had  sustained  this  Woman  on  the 
sea 

When  strong  men  turned  to  flee  ? 
Not  courage,  not  despair, 
Not  pride,  not  household  care, 
Not  faith  in  Thee  ! 

Nought  but  a  hungry  instinct  blind  and 
dim — 

A  fond  pathetic  pain  : 
A  dreamy  wish  to  gaze  again  on  him 
She  never  wholly  hoped  to  see  again  ! 

Not  all  at  once, — not  in  an  hour,  a  day 
Did  the  strong  Woman  feel  her  force 

depart, 

Or  know  how  utterly  had  passed  away 
The  strength  of  her  sad  heart. 


tiORTH   COAST,   AND   OTHER   POEMS. 


- 


It  was  not  Love  she  missed,  for  Love  was 

dead, 
And  surely  had  been  dead  long  ere  she 

knew  ; 
She  did  not  miss  the  man's  face  when  it  fled, 

As  passionate  women  do. 
She  saw  him  walk  into  the  world  again, 

And  had  no  pain  ; 

She  shook  him  by  the  hand,  and  watched 
him  go, 

And  thought  it  better  so. 
She  turned  to  her  hard  task-work  as  of  old, 
Tending  her  bearded  child  with  love  ten- 
fold, 
Hoisted  the  sails  and  plied  the  oar, 

Went  wandering  out  from  shore, 
And  for  a  little  space 
Wore  an  unruffled  face, 
Though  wind  and  water  helped  her  heart 

no  more. 

But,   mark  :  she  knelt  less  often  on   her 
knees, 

For,  labour  as  she  might, 

By  day  or  night, 

She  could  not  toil  enough  to  give  her  ease. 
And  presently  her  tongue,   with    sharper 
chimes, 

Chided  at  times  ; 

And  she  who  had  endured  such  sharp  dis- 
tress 

Grew  peevish,  pain'd  at  her  own  peevish- 
ness ; 

And  though  she  did  not  weep, 
Her  features  grew  disfigur'd,  dark,  and 

dead, 
And  in  the  night,  when  bitterest  mourners 

sleep, 
She  feverishly  tossed  upon  her  bed. 

Slowly  the  trouble  grew,  and  soon  she  found 
Less  pleasure  in  the  fierce  yet  friendly 

Sea; 

The  wind  and  water  had  a  wearier  sound, 
The  moon  and  stars  were  sick  as  corpse- 
lights  be  ; 

Then  more  and  more  strange  voices  filled 
her  ear, 

And  ghostly  feet  came  near, 
And  strange  fire  blew  her  eyelids  down,  and 
then 

Dead  women  and  dead  men 
Dripping  with  phosphor,  rose,  and  ere  she 
wist 


Went  by  in  a  cold  mist ; 
Nor  left  her  strengthen'd  in  her  heart  and 
bold, 

As  they  had  done  of  old  ; 
But  ever  after  they  had  stolen  away 
She  had  no  heart  to  pray  : 
Bitter  and  dull  and  cold, 
Her  Soul  crawl'd  back  into  the  common 
day. 

Out  of  the  East  by  night 

Drew  the  dark  drifting  cloud  ; 
The    air    was    hushed    with    snow-flakes 
wavering  white, 

But  the  seas  below  were  loud  ; 
And  out  upon  the  reef  the  rapid  light 
Rose  from  a  shipwrecked  bark 

Into  the  dark  ! 
Pale  stood  the  fishers,  while  the  wind  wail'd 

by, 

Till  suddenly  they  started  with  one  cry, 
And  forth  into   the  foam   the  black  boat 

flew, 

And  fearless  to  their  places  leapt  the  crew. 
Then  one  called  out,  '  Meg  Blane  ! ' 

But  Meg  stood  by,  and  trembled  and  was 

dumb, 

Till,  smit  unto  the  heart  by  sudden  pain, 
Into  her  hair  she  thrust  her  fingers  numb, 

And  fell  upon  the  sands, 
Nor  answer'd  while  the  wondering  fishers 

called, 

But  tore  the  slippery  seaweed  with  her 
hands, 

And  screamed,  and  was  appalled. 

For,  lo  !  the  Woman's  spiritual  strength 

Snapt  like  a  thread  at  length, 
And  tears,  ev'n  such  as  suffering  women 
cry, 

Fell  from  her  eyes  anon  ; 
And  she  knew  well,  although  she  knew  not 

•why, 

The  charm  she  had  against  the  deep  was 
gone ! 

And  after  that  dark  hour, 

She  was  the  shadow  of  a  strong 

Soul  dead, 
All  terrible  things  of  power 

Turned  into  things  of  dread, 
And  all  the  peace  of  all  the  world  had 
fled. 


MMG  BtANE. 


Then  only  in  still  weather  did  she  dare 

To  seek  her  bread  on  Ocean,  as  of  old, 
And  oft  in  tempest  time  her  shelf  was  bare, 

Her  hearth  all  black  and  cold  ; 
Then  very  bitterly,  with  heart  gone  wild, 

She  clung  about  her  child, 
And  hated  all  the  earth  beneath  the  skies, 
Because  she  saw  the  hunger  in  his  eyes. 
For  on  his   mother's  strength  the  witless 
wight 

Had  leant  for  guide  and  light, 
And  food  had  ever  come  into  his  hand, 
And  he  had  known  no  thought  of  suffer- 
ing ; 
Yea,  all  his  life  and  breath  on  sea  and  land 

Had  been  an  easy  thing. 
And  now  there  was  a  change  in  his  sole 
friend 

He  could  riot  comprehend. 
Yet  slowly  to  the  shade  of  her  distress 
His  nature  shaped  itself  in  gentleness  ! 
And  when  he  found  her  weeping,  he  too 

wept, 

And,  if  she  laughed,  laughed  out  in  com- 
pany ; 

Nay,  often  to  the  fisher-huts  he  crept, 
And  begged  her  bread,  and  brought  it 

tenderly, 

Holding  it  to  her  mouth,  and  till  she  ate 
Touching  no  piece,  although  he  hungered 

sore. 

And  these  things  were  a  solace  to  her  fate, 
But  wrung  her  heart  the  more. 

Thus  to  the  bitter  dolour  of  her  days 
In  witless  mimicry  he  shaped  his  ways  ! 
They  fared  but  seldom  now  upon  the  Sea, 
But  wandered  'mid  the  marshes  hand  in 

hand, 

Hunting  for  faggots  on  the  inland  lea, 
Or    picking    dulse   for  food    upon    the 

strand. 
Something  had  made  the  world  more  sad 

and  strange, 

But  easily  he  changed  with  the  change. 
For  in  the  very  trick  of  woe  he  clad 
His  features,  and  was  sad  since  she  was  sad, 
Yea,  leant  his  chin  upon  his  hands  like  her, 
Looking  at  vacancy  ;  and  when  the  Deep 
Was  troublous,  and  she  started  up  from 

sleep, 

He  too  awoke,  with  fearful  heart  astir  ; 
And  still,  the  more  her  bitter  tears  she  shed 


Upon  his  neck,  marking  that  mimic-woe, 
The  more  in  blind  deep  love  he  fashioned 
His  grief  to  hers,  and  was  contented  so. 

But  as  a  tree  inclineth  weak  and  bare 
Under  an  unseen  weight  of  wintry  air, 
Beneath  her  load  the  weary  Woman  bent, 
And,  stooping  double,  waver'd  as  she  went ; 
And  the  days  snow'd  their  snows  upon  her 
head 

As  they  went  by, 
And  ere  a  year  had  fled 
She  felt  that  she  must  die. 

Then  like  a  thing  whom  very  witlessness 

Maketh  indifferent,  she  lingered  on, 
Not  caring  to  abide  with  her  distress, 

Not  caring  to  be  gone  ; 
But  gazing  with  a  dull  and  darkening  eye, 

And  seeing  Dreams  pass  by. 
Not  speculating  whither  she  would  go, 
But  feeling  there  was  nought  she  cared  to 
know, 

And  melting  even  as  snow. 
Save  when  the  man's  hand  slipped  into  her 
own, 

And  flutter'd  fondly  there, 
And  she  would  feel  her  life  again,   and 

groan, 
'  O  GOD  !    when  I  am  gone,  how  will  he 

fare?' 
And  for  a  little  time,  for  Angus'  sake, 

Her  hopeless  heart  would  ache, 

And  all  life's  stir  and  anguish  once  again 

Would  swoon  across  her  brain. 

'  O  bairn,  when  I  am  dead, 

How  shall  ye  keep  frae  harm? 
What  hand  will  gie  ye  bread  ? 

What  fire  will  keep  ye  warm  ? 
How  shall  ye  dwell  on  earth    awa'  frae 
me?' — 

'  O  Mither,  dinna  dee  ! ' 

'  O  bairn,  by  nigh  or  day 
I  hear  nae  sounds  ava', 
But  voices  of  winds  that  blaw, 
And  the  voices  of  ghaists  that  say 

"Come  awa  !  come  awa  !  " 
The  LORD  that  made  the  Wind,  and  made 
the  Sea, 

Is  sore  on  my  son  and  me, 
And  I  melt  in  His  breath  like  snaw,' — 
1 0  Mither,  dinna  dee  ! 


KORTH  COAST,  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


'  O  bairn,  it  is  but  closing  up  the  een, 
And  lying  down  never  to  rise  again. 
Many    a   strong  man's  sleeping  hae   I 
seen, — 

There  is  nae  pain  ! 
I  m  weary,  weary,  and  I  scarce  ken  why  ; 

My  summer  has  gone  by, 
And  sweet  were  sleep,  but  for  the  sake  o' 

thee.'— 
'  O  Mither,  dinna  dee  ! ' 

When  summer  scents  and  sounds  were  on 

the  Sea, 
And  all  night  long    the    silvern    surge 

plash'd  cool, 

Outside  the  hut  she  sat  upon  a  stool, 
And  with  thin  fingers  fashion'd  carefully, 
While  Angus  leant  his  head  against  her 
knee, 

A  long  white  dress  of  wool. 
'  O  Mither,'  cried  the  man,  'what  make  ye 
there?' 

1 A  blanket  for  our  bed  ! ' 
'  O  Mither,  it  is  like  the  shroud  folk  wear 
When  they  are  drown'd  and  dead  ! ' 
And  Meg  said  nought,  but  kissed  him  on 

the  lips, 
And  looked  with  dull  eye  seaward,  where 

the  moon 
Blacken'd  the  white  sails  of  the  passing 

ships, 
Into  the  Land  where  she  was  going  soon. 

And  in  the  reaping-time  she  lay  abed, 
And  by  her  side  the  dress  unfinished, 
And  with  dull  eyes  that  knew  not  even  her 

child 

She  gazed  at  vacancy  and  sometimes  smiled; 
And  ever  her  fingers  work'd,  for  in  her 

thought 
Stitching  and  stitching,  still  the  dress  she 

wrought ; 
And  then  a  beldame  old,  with  blear-eyed 

face. 

For  CHRIST  and  Charity  came  to  the  place, 
And  stilly  sewed  the  woollen  shroud  herself, 
And  set  the  salt  and  candle  on  a  shelf. 
And  like  a  dumb  thing  crouching  moveless 

there, 

Gripping  the  fingers  wan, 
Marking  the  face  with  wild  and  wondering 

stare, 

And  whining  beast-like,  watch'd  the  wit- 
less man. 


Then  like  a  light  upon  a  headland  set, 
In  winds  that  come  from  far-off  waters 

blowing, 
The    faint    light    glimmered — fainter — 

fainter  yet ! 

But  suddenly  it  brighten'd,  at  its  going  ; 
And  Meg  sat  up,  and,  lo  !  her  features  wore 
The  stately  sweetness  they  had  known  of 

yore  ; 
And  delicate  lines  were  round  her  mouth, 

mild  rest 
Was  in  her  eyes,  though  they  were  waxing 

dim; 

And  when  the  man  crept  close  unto  her 
breast, 

She  brighten'd  kissing  him. 

And  it  was  clear 
She  had  heard  tidings  it  was  sweet  to  hear, 
And  had  no  longer  any  care  or  fear. 
1 1  gang,  my  bairn,  and  thou  wilt  come  to 
me!' 

'  O  Mither,  dinna  dee ! ' 
But  as  he  spake  she  dropt  upon  the  bed, 
And  darken' d,  while  the  breath  came  thick 

and  fleet : 
1 0  Jessie,  see  they  mind  my  Bairn  ! '  she 

said, 

And  quivered, — and  was  sleeping  at  God's 
Feet. 

When  on  her  breast  the  plate  of  salt  was 

laid, 
And  the  corse-candle  burned  with  sick 

blue  light, 
The  man  crouch'd,  fascinated  and  afraid, 

Beside  her,  moaning  through  the  night ; 
And  answered  not  the  women  who  stole 
near, 

And  would  not  see  nor  hear  : 
And  when  a  day  and  night  had  come  and 

gone, 
Ate  at  the  crusts  they  brought  him,  gazing 

on  ; 

And  when  they  took  her  out  upon  a  bier, 
He  followed  quietly  without  a  tear  ; 
And  when  on  the  hard  wood  fell  dust  and 

stone, 

He  murmur'd  a  thin  answer  to  the  sound, 
And  in  the  end  he  sat,  with  a  dull  moan, 
Upon  the  new-made  mound. 

Last,  as  a  dog  that  mourns  a  master  dead, 
The  man  did  haunt  that  grave  in  dull 
dumb  pain ; 


MEG  BLANE-THE  BATTLE   OF  DRUMLIEMOOR. 


221 


Creeping  away  to  beg  a  little  bread, 

Then  stealing  back  again ; 
And  only  knaves  and  churls  refused  to  give 
The  gift  of  bread  or  meal  that  he  might 
live — 

Till,  pale  and  piteous-eyed, 
He  moan'd  beneath  a  load  too  hard  to  bear. 

'  Mither  ! '  he  cried, — 
And  crawled  into  the  Dark,  to  seek  her 
there. 


THE  BATTLE   OF  DRUM  LIE- 
MOOR. 

(COVENANT  PERIOD.) 

BAR  the  door !   put  out  the  light,  for  it 

gleams  across  the  night, 
And  guides  the  bloody  motion  of  their 

feet; 
Hush  the  bairn  upon  thy  breast,-  lest  it 

guide  them  in  their  quest, 
And  with  water  quench  the  blazing  of  the 

peat. 
Now,  Wife,  sit  still  and  hark ! — hold  my 

hand  amid  the  dark  ; 
O  Jeanie,  we  are  scattered— e'en  as  sleet ! 

It  was  down  on  Drumliemoor,  where  it 

slopes  upon  the  shore, 
And  looks  upon  the  breaking  of  the  bay, 
In   the  kirkyard  of  the  dead,  where  the 

heather  is  thrice  red 
With  the  blood  of  those  asleep  beneath 

the  clay ; 
And  the  Howiesons  were  there,  and  the 

people  of  Glen  Ayr, 

And  we  gathered  in  the  gloom  o'  night — 
to  pray. 

How !    Sit  at  home  in  fear,  when  God's 

Voice  was  in  mine  ear, 
When  the  priests  of  Baal  were  slaughter- 
ing His  sheep  ? 
Nay !  there  I  took  my  stand,  with  my  reap- 

hook  in  my  hand, 
For  bloody  was  the  sheaf  that  I  might 

reap; 
And  the  Lord  was  in  His  skies,  with  a 

thousand  dreadful  eyes, 
And  His  breathing  made  a  trouble  on  the 
Deep. 


Each    mortal    of   the    band    brought   his 

weapon  in  his  hand, 
Though  the  chopper  or  the  spit  was  all 

he  bare ; 
And  not  a  man  but  knew  the  work  he  had 

to  do, 

If  the  Fiend  should  fall  upon  us  unaware. 
And  our  looks  were  ghastly  white,  but  it 

was  not  with  affright, — 
The  Lord  our  God  was  present  to  our 
prayer. 

Oh,  solemn,  sad,  and  slow,  rose  the  stem 

voice  of  Monroe, 
And  he  curst  the  curse  of  Babylon  the 

Whore  ; 
We  could  not  see  his  face,  but  a  gleam  was 

in  its  place, 
Like  the  phosphor  of  the  foam  upon  the 

shore ; 
And  the  eyes  of  all  were  dim,  as  they  fixed 

themselves  on  him, 

And  the  Sea  filled  up  the  pauses  with  its 
roar. 

But  when,   with  accents  calm,   Kilmahoe 

gave  out  the  psalm, 
The  sweetness  of  God's  Voice  upon  his 

tongue, 
With  one  voice  we  praised  the  Lord  of  the 

Fire  and  of  the  Sword, 
And  louder  than  the  winter  wind  it  rung ; 
And  across  the  stars  on   high  went  the 

smoke  of  tempest  by, 
And  a  vapour  roll'd  around  us  as  we  sung. 

'Twas  terrible  to  hear  our  cry  rise  deep  and 

clear, 
Though  we  could  not  see  the  criers  of  the 

cry, 
But  we   sang  and  gript  our  brands,  and 

touched  each  other's  hands, 
While  a  thin  sleet  smote  our  faces  from 

the  sky  ; 
And,  sudden,  strange,  and  low,  hissed  the 

voice  of  Kilmahoe, 

1  Grip  your  weapons  !     Wait  in  silence  ! 
They  are  nigh  ! ' 

And  heark'ning,   with  clench'd  teeth,  we 

could  hear,  across  the  heath, 
The  tramping  of  the  horses  as  they  flew, 

And  no  man  breathed  a  breath,  but  all  were 
still  as  death, 


222 


NORTH  COAST,    AND   OTHER   POEMS. 


And  close  together  shivering  we  drew  ; 
And  deeper  round  us  fell  all  the  eyeless 

gloom  of  Hell, 
And — the  Fiend  was  in  among  us  ere  we 

knew ! 

Then    our    battle-shriek    arose,    mid    the 

cursing  of  our  foes — 
No  face  of  friend  or  foeman  could  we 

mark; 
But  I  struck  and  kept  my  stand  (trusting 

God  to  guide  my  hand), 
And  struck,  and  struck,  and  heard  the 

hell-hounds  bark  ; 
And  I  fell  beneath  a  horse,  but  I  reached 

with  all  my  force, 

And  ript  him  with  my  reap-hook  through 
the  dark. 

As  we  struggled,  knowing  not  whose  hand 

was  at  our  throat, 
Whose  blood  was  spouting  warm  into  our 

eyes, 
We  felt  the  thick  snow-drift  swoop  upon  us 

from  the  lift, 

And  murmur  in  the  pauses  of  our  cries  ; 
But,  lo  !  before  we  wist,  rose  the  curtain  of 

the  mist, 

And  the  pale  Moon  shed  a  glimmer  from 
the  skies. 

O  God  !  it  was  a  sight  that  made  the  hair 

turn  white, 
That  wither'd  up  the  heart's  blood  into 

woe, 
To  see  the  faces  loom  in  the  dimly  lighted 

gloom, 

And  the  butcher' d  lying  bloodily  below  ; 
While  melting,  with  no  sound,  fell  so  peace- 
fully around 

The  whiteness  and   the  wonder  of  the 
Snow! 

Ay,  and  thicker,  thicker,  poured  the  pale 

Silence  of  the  Lord, 
From  the  hollow  of  His  hand  we  saw  it 

shed, 
And  it  gather'd  round  us  there,   till  we 

groan'd  and  gasp'd  for  air, 
And  beneath  was  ankle-deep  and  stained 

red; 
And  soon,  whatever  wight  was  smitten  down 

in  fight 
Was  buried  in  the  drift  ere  he  was  dead  ! 


Then  we  beheld  at  length  the  troopers  in 

their  strength, 

For  faster,  faster,  faster  up  they  streamed, 
And  their  pistols  flashing  bright  showed 

their  faces  ashen  white, 
And  their  blue  steel  caught  the  driving 

Moon,  and  gleamed. 

But  a  dying  voice  cried,  '  Fly  ! '     And  be- 
hold, e'en  at  the  cry, 
A  panic  fell  upon  us,  and  we  screamed  ! 

Oh,  shrill  and  awful  rose,  'mid  the  splashing 

blood  and  blows, 

Our  scream  unto  the  Lord  that  let  us  die ; 
And  the  Fiend  amid  us  roared  his  defiance 

at  the  Lord, 
And  his  servants  slew  the  strong  man 

'mid  his  cry ; 
And  the  Lord  kept  still  in  Heaven,  and  the 

only  answer  given 

Was  the  white  Snow  falling,  falling,  from 
the  sky. 

Then  we  fled !  the  darkness  grew  !  'mid  the 

driving  cold  we  flew, 
Each  alone,  yea,  each  for  those  whom  he 

held  dear ; 
And  I  heard  upon  the  wind  the  thud  of 

hoofs  behind, 
And  the  scream  of  those  who  perish'd  in 

their  fear, 
But  I  knew  by  heart  each  path  through  the 

darkness  of  the  strath, 
And   I   hid  myself  all  day,  — and  I  am 
here. 

Ah  !  gathered  in  one  fold  be  the  holy  men 

and  bold, 
And  beside  them  the  accursed  and  the 

proud  ; 
The  Howiesons  are  there,  and  the  Wylies 

of  Glen  Ayr, 
Kirkpatrick,  and  Macdonald,  and  Mac- 

leod. 
And  while  the  widow  groans,   lo  !  God's 

Hand  around  their  bones 
His  thin  ice  windeth  whitely,  as  a  shroud 

On  mountain  and  in  vale  our  women  will 

look  pale, 

And  palest  where  the  ocean  surges  boom : 
Buried  'neath  snow-drift  white,  with  no  holy 

prayer  or  rite, 


BATTLE   OF  DRUMLIEMOOR—THE  NORTHERN   WOOING.       223 


Lie  the  loved  ones  they  look  for  in  the 

gloom  ; 
And  deeper,  deeper  still,  spreads  the  Snow 

on  vale  and  hill, 

And    deeper    and    yet  deeper    is    their 
Tomb! 


THE  NORTHERN   WOOING. 

SKIES  are  dusky,  winds  are  keen, 
Round  Lallan  Farm  this  Hallowe'en. 

All  is  dark  across  the  night, 

But  see !  one  glimmer  of  pink  light ! 

What  are  those  that  in  the  air 
Flit  against  the  window-glare  ? 

Falling  flakes  of  snow  they  seem, 

Or  night-moths  gather'd  by  the  gleam. 

Round  and  round  they  wind  and  wind, — 
Tiny  shades  against  the  blind. 

Child,  wish  now  !  while  thou  canst  see  ! 
'Tis  the  faery  companie  ! 

Once  a  year,  on  Hallowe'en, 
Are  the  faery  people  seen. 

Thus  round  happy  farms  they  fly, 
While  the  peat-fire  blazes  high. 

Lad  and  lass,  to-night  beware  ! 
There  is  magic  in  the  air  ! 

1  Ah,  bairns,  my  bairns,  forbear  on  Hallow 

Night 

To  mock  the  faery  people  and  their  might, 
For  though  ye  deem  these  things  are  all 

untrue, 

Yourselves  may  be  the  first  to  see  and  rue  ! 
Hark !  now  the  winds  a  moment  cease  to 

roar, 
A  sound  like  some  one  breathing  at  the 

door  ! 

And  hark  again  !  faint  pattings  on  the  pane 
Of  little  finger-taps,  like  fluttering  rain ! 
Ay  1  'tis  the  faery  people  hovering  nigh  : 
Draw  back  the  blind  to  peep,  and  they  will 

fly! 


But  serve  them  solemnly,  with  charm  and 

spell, 

And  the  old  customs  that  they  love  so  well, 
And  they  will  show  you  all  you  wish  to 

see, — 
Your    true    love's  face,   his    country  and 

degree, — 

All,  all  a  lass  with  pleasure  asks  and  learns, 
Down  to  the  number  of  her  unborn  bairns  ! 

'  Ay,  please  the  fays  !  'tis  easy  if  ye  will ; 
But  woe  be  yours  if  they  should  wish  you 

ill: 
Your  jo  will  take  to  drink,    or  drown  at 

sea, 

Or  find  another  sweeter  companie  ; 
Your  cheeks  will  droop,  your  looks  will  lose 

their  light ; 

Ye'll  marry  an  old  man,  and  freeze  at  night ! 
In  vain,  in  vain  ye  try  to  change  your  fate, 
When  they  have  fix'd  your  lot  and  future 

mate  : 

In  vain  ye  seek  to  frown  and  turn  aside, — 
They  make  your  heart  consent  in  spite  of 

pride. 
'Twas  so  with  me,  when  I  was  young  and 

gay, 

Though  I  was  loth  to  hearken  and  obey. 
They  led  me  to  their  choice  by  spells  and 

charms  ; 
They  closed  my  een,  and  drew  me  to  his 

arms  ! 

Or  grandfather  had  ne'er  prevailed  on  me 
To  droop  my  pride,  and  smile  as  low  as  he  ! 

1  For,   though  I  say  it,  bairns,  my  face 

was  fair, 

And  I  was  Farmer  Binnie's  child  and  heir ; 
A  widowed  father's  pet,  I  ruled  the  place, 
Right  proud,  be  sure,  of  fortune  and  of 

face. 
My  hair  was  golden  then,  like  Maggie's 

here, 

And  I  had  een  as  sly,  yet  crystal  clear, 
And  I  could  look  as  bright  when  pleased 

and  fain, 

Or  toss  my  curls  with  just  as  sweet  disdain ! 
What  wonder,  then,  if  half  the  country-side 
Looked  love  into  my  face,  and  blush'd  and 

cried, 

Bleating  behind  me,  like  a  flock  of  sheep 
Around  a  shepherd-lass,  who,  half  asleep, 


224 


NORTH  COAST,    AND   OTHER   POEMS. 


Counts  them  in  play,  leads  them  with  pretty 

speech, 
Rates  all  alike,  and  scarce  kens  each  from 

each? 

One  found  me  coy,  another  found  me  gleg, 
Another  skittish  as  the  gray  mare  Meg  ; 
Just  as  the  humour  took  me,  I  was  wild 
Or  gentle, — one  day  cross,  the  next  day 

mild  ; 
But  cared  no  more  for  handsome  Jamie 

West, 
When    he  came  o'er  the   heather  in  his 

best, 

Jingling  his  silver  spurs  at  our  fire-end, 
In  breeks  so  tight  'twas  near  his  death  to 

bend, 
Than  for  the  grim  old  Laird  of  Glumlie 

Glen, 

Who  rode  on  solemn  sheltie  now  and  then 
Over  the  moors, — and,  making  mouths  at 

me, 
With  father  cracked  of  crops  o'er  barley- 

bree, — 
While  Jock  the  groom,  who  knew  I  loved 

such  fun, 
Ginger'd  the  sheltie  for  a  homeward  run  ! 

'  Yet  oft  I  tried  to  picture  in  my  brain 
What  kind  of  laddie  in  the  end  would  gain, 
And  vainly  sought  'mong  those  around  to 

find 

The  substance  of  the  shadow  in  my  mind. 
But,  bairns,  in  vain  I  pictured  ;  and  anew 
Will  you  and  children's  children  picture 

too:— 

The  bonnie  shadow  flies,  and  in  its  place 
The  chilly  substance  steals  to  our  embrace. 
I  swore  he  should  be  stately,  dark,   and 

tall,— 

His  hair  was  fiery-red  and  he  was  small  ! 
I  swore  he  should  be  rich  in  gold  and 

lands, — 
His  fortune  was  the  strength  of  his  two 

hands ! 
I  swore  he  should  be  meek  and  ruled  by 

me,— 
The  De'il  himself  is  easier  led  than  he  ! ' 

Round  the  happy  farm  they  flee, — 
Faery  folk  in  companie. 

Near  the  peat-blaze  range  in  ring ; 
Fiddler,  twang  the  fiddle-string. 


In  the  great  tub  duck  the  head 
After  apples  rosy  red  ! 

Slyly  let  each  pair  by  turn 
Watch  the  magic  chestnuts  burn  ! 

Love  who  never  loved  before, — 
Kiss  me  quick  behind  the  door  ! 

Lad  and  lass,  to-night  beware  ! 
There  is  magic  in  the  air  ! 

'  O  bairns,  we  gathered  round  the  blazing 

peat, 
And  lad  and  lass  sat  close  and  whispered 

sweet, 
While  ancient  women  spake  of  wonders 

seen 

On  many  a  long-forgotten  Hallowe'en, 
And  old  men  nodded  snowy  polls  the  while, 
Passing  the  snuff-box  round  with  sceptic 

smile. 

Tall  in  the  midst  my  father  had  his  place, 
Health  and  a  golden  harvest  in  his  face  ; 
And,  hand  in  his,  full  rosy  and  full  sly, 
Surrounded  by  my  silly  sheep  sat  I. 
Loud  rang  the  laughter  !  fearless  grew  the 

fun! 

Happy  and  warm  at  heart  was  every  one  ! 
The  old,  old  shepherd,  worn  with  rain  and 

wind, 
Blink'd  in  the  ingle-nook  with  eyes  half 

blind, 
While  at  his  feet  his  tired  old  dog  slept 

deep, 
And,   starting,   dream'd  of  gathering  the 

sheep. 

'James  West  was  there,  the  Laird,  and 

many  more, 
Wooers  both  old  and  young,  and  rich  and 

poor ; 
And,  though  I  say  it,  bairns,  that  night  I 

smiled 
My  sweetest,    and   their  wits  were  fairly 

wild. 

Braw  with  new  ribbons  in  my  hair  lint-light, 
Clean  as  a  guinea,  newly  minted,  bright, 
I  sat  and  hearkened  to  their  silly  speech, 
Happy,  and  with  a  careless  smile  for  each  ; 
And  yet,  though  some  were  fine  and  fair  to 

see, 
Not  one  had  power  to  steal  my  heart  fron} 

me, 


THE  NORTHERN  WOOING. 


22$ 


'Oh,   Hallowe'en  in  those  old  times,   I 

vow, 
Was  thrice  as  merry,  thrice  as  sweet,  as 

now ! 

The  benches  drawn  aside,  the  supper  o'er, 
Fresh  sand  was  strewn  upon  this  very  floor; 
The    fiddle    played — the    fiddler    gave    a 

squeal — 

Up  stood  the  folk,  and  father  led  the  reel ! 
The  lads  loup'd  up  and  kick'd  the  beam  for 

fun  ! 
The    crimson    lassies  screamed  to  see  it 

done ! 
Meantime  the    old    men,   with  contented 

look, 
Smoked  clean  new  cutties  in  the  chimney 

nook, 
And  thought  of  days  when  they  were  young 

and  gay, 
And  pleased  the  lassies,  too,  with  feats  of 

play. 
Yet  one  was  there,  my  bairns,  amid  the 

throng, 
Who,    though  his  years  were  young,  his 

limbs  full  strong, 
Danced    not    that    night ;    but    pale  and 

gloomy,  stayed 

Among  the  gaffers,  in  the  chimney  shade, — 
Hugh  Scott  his  name,  an  orphan  lad, 

whose  hand 
Guided    the  ploughshare  on   my  father's 

land, 

But  one  my  father  prized  and  trusted  best 
For  cunning  and  for  skill  o'er  all  the  rest. 
Full  well  I  knew  the  rogue  esteemed  me 

sweet, 

But  I  was  gentry,  and  his  masters'  meat ! 
And  oft  I   smiled  on  him  full  fond  and 

free, 

As  ne'er  I  smiled  on  those  who  courted  me, 
Pleased  that  my  smiles  sank  sweet  to  his 

heart's  core, 
But  certain  he  would  never  hope  for  more. 

'  There  in  the  chimney  shadow,  pale  and 

sad, 

Clad  in  his  clothes  of  Sabbath,  sat  the  lad : 
In  vain,  to  catch  his  look,  the  lassies  leered, 
In  vain  the  old  folk  saw  his  sulks,  and 

sneered, 

But  aye  his  dim  and  melancholy  e'e 
Turned  flashing  in  the  shade  and  followed 


Whene'er  I  danced  with  some  fine  wooer 

there, 
I  saw  his   fist    clench    and    his    eyeballs 

glare,— 

Red  as  a  rick  on  fire  I  watched  him  grow 
Whene'er  my  partner  whispered  light  and 

low, 

And  had  a  kiss  been  stolen  in  his  sight, 
I  swear  he  would  have  ta'en  revenge  in  fight. 
Half  pleased,  half  careless,  to  increase  his  ill, 
I  marked  him  kindly,  as  a  lassie  will, 
And  sent  him  many  a  smile  of  tender  light 
To  cheer  him  in  his  nook,  that  Hallow  night. 

1  Louder  the  fiddler,  gay  with  many  a 
glass, 

Shouted  to  stir  the  hearts  of  lad  and  lass  ! 

Faster  and  faster  on  his  strings  he  skirled  ! 

Faster  and  faster  round  the  dancers  whirled ! 

Close  by,  the  young  folks  duck'd  for  apples 
red, 

Splashing,  with  puffing  cheek  and  dripping 
head, 

Into  the  washing-bine,  or,  in  a  ring, 

With  gaping  mouths,  they  played  at  cherry- 
string. 

But  in  the  parlour,  from  the  turmoil  free, 

Father  sat  now  with  antique  companie — 

Cronies  who  mixed  their  tumblers  strong 
and  deep 

Twelve  times,  and  toddled,  sober,  off  to 
sleep. 

'  But,  bairns,  'twas  near  the  hour  when 

ghaists  are  said 
To  rise  white-sheeted  from  their  kirkyard 

bed, 
When  the  owl  calls,  and  blinks  his  e'eball 

white 

In  ruins,  where  the  fairies  flit  by  night. 
And  now  my  heart  beat  fast  and  thick  foi 

fear, 
Because  the  time  of  spells  and  charms  was 

near, 

And  I  was  bent  that  very  night  to  fly 
Out  o'er  the  meadow  to  the  kiln, — and  try 
The  twining  charm,  the  spell  of  fairy  fate, 
And  hear  the  name  of  him  that  I  should 

mate.' 

Lad  and  lass,  to-night  beware  1 
There  is  magic  in  the  air  ! 

Winds  are  crying  shrill,  and,  hark 
Ghosts  are  groaning  in  the  dark. 
Q 


226 


NORTH  COAST,  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


Who  will  dare  this  Hallow  Night 
Leave  the  happy  ingle-light  ? 

Who  will  dare  to  stand  alone, 
While  the  fairy  thread  is  thrown  ? 

Who  this  night  is  free  from  fear  ? 
Let  her  ask,  -  and  she  shall  hear  ! 

•  Dark,    dark  was  all,  as  shivering  and 

alone 

I  set  my  foot  upon  the  threshold-stone, 
And,  trembling  close,  with  twitching  fingers 

caught 
The  great  horn-lanthorn  from  the  stables 

brought, 

And  leant  against  the  door  to  keep  it  wide, 
And  peer'd  into  the  solemn  gloom,  and 

sighed. 
Black  was    the    lift,   and  faintly   fell  the 

rain, 
The  wind  was  screeching  like  a  sprite  in 

pain  ; 
And,  while  I  paused,  pinching  my  e'en  to 

mark, 
The  wind  swung-to  the  door,  and  left  me 

in  the  dark  ! 

•  O  bairns  !  what  would  my  foolish  heart 

have  gi'en 

To  let  the  fairies  be,  that  Hallowe'en  ! 
But  I  had  sworn,  and  all  the  lassies  knew, 
And  I  was  shamed,  and  fain  must  see  it 

through. 
Oh  !  where  were  all  my  boasts,  my  laughter 

light, 

Now  I  was  there  alone  amid  the  night? 
While  faintly  ben  the  farm  the  fiddle  cried, 
And  far  away  the  sound  of  dancing  died. 

1  Thud,  thud  against  my  breast  my  wild 
heart  leapt, 

As  out  across  the  misty  yard  I  crept, 

Holding  the  Ian  thorn  up  ; — its  flickering 
ray 

Made  darkness  doubly  deep  along  the  way. 

Then  in  my  ears  I  seem'd  to  hear  strange 
screams, 

And  fearful  faces  flashed  with  lightning- 
gleams, 

And,  as  I  wandered,  fingers  sharp  and  wee 

Pinched  me  and  pulled  my  garter  o'er  the 
knee. 


:  end 

- 


Out  of  the  yard,  across  the  field,  the  dew 
Still  drizzling  damply  in  my  face,  I  flew, 
Till,  breathless,  panting  hard  against  the 

wind, 

Fearful  to  look  before  me  or  behind, 
I  reached  the  kiln, — and,  standing  d 

there, 

Heard  softer  voices  round  me  in  the  air, 
A  sound  like  little  feet  along  the  gloom, 
And  hummings  faint  as  of  a  fairy  loom. 
Then  setting  down  the  lanthorn  on 

ground 

I  entered  in,  nor  paused  to  look  around. 
But  faint  and  fast  began  to  say  the  charrn 
All  northern  lassies  know,  and  reached  my 

arm, 
Casting  the  twine,  and  catching  one 

tight  - 

Flinging  the  other  loose  into  the  night 
O  bairns  !  O  bairns !  scarce  had  I  ut 

thrice 

The  secret  spell,  with  lips  as  cold  as  ice, 
When  through  my  blood  a  sick'ning  shudder 

spread, 

For  ghaistly  fingers  tighten1  d  at  the  thread  ! 
Then  in  a  hollow  voice,  to  know  my  doom, 
"Who  holds?  who  holds?"  I  cried  into 

the  gloom ; — 

And  ere  the  echo  of  my  voice  had  died, 
"Hugh  Scott!  Hugh  Scott!"  a  hollow 

voice  replied : 
And,  screaming  out,  and  covering  up  my 

face, 

Kicking  the  lanthorn  o'er,  I  fled  the  place, 
Stumbling  and  tripping,    flew  across   the 

field, 

Till,  white  as  any  lamb,  I  reached  thebield, 
And  crept  up  to  my  room,  and  hid  my 

head, 
Moaning,  among  the  blankets  of  the  bed  1 ' 

Lightly  soon  shall  rise  the  sun  ! 
Fays,  begone !  your  work  is  done. 

Fiddler,  put  your  tools  away, 
Take  a  nap  among  the  hay. 

Lads  and  lassies,  flush'd  and  red, 
Yawn  no  more,  but  off  to  bed. 

Maiden,  thou  hast  heard  and  seen 
Wonders  strange  at  Hallowe'en. 


THE  NORTHERN  WOOING— AN  ENGLISH  ECLOGUE.         227 


Thou  hast  wish'd  to  hear  and  see — 
And  thy  fate  is  fixed  for  thee. 

Sad  or  merry,  ill  or  well, 

Fairy  looms  have  spun  the  spell. 

In  among  the  blankets  creep — 
Dream  about  him  in  your  sleep. 

Wake  and  smile  with  heart  resigned ! 
Kiss  and  cuddle,  and  be  kind  ! 

'Oh,    bitter    was    my    heart,    my    wits 

amazed ; 

Wildly  I  pondered  like  a  lassie  crazed  : 
Hugh  Scott  my  mate  !     Hugh  Scott,  of  all 

around ! 

A  pauper  lad,  a  tiller  of  the  ground  ! 
When  wealthy  men  came  lilting  o'er  the  lea, 
In  shining  braws,  and  sought  to  marry  me  ! 
"Nay,  nay  !"  I  cried,  and  frowning  raised 

my  face, 
' '  No  force  shall  make  me  choose  a  lot  so 

base : 

The  spirits  of  the  air  but  wish  this  night 
To  try  my  heart,  and  fill   my  soul   with 

fright ; 
Yet  they  shall  know  full  soon  they  rate  me 

ill,— 

1  fear  them  not,  nor  shall  I  work  their  will !  " 
But  as  I  spoke,  I  shook,  and  unaware 
Keek'd  o'er  my  shoulder  at  the  glass,  and 

there, 

In  the  faint  lamplight  burning  by  the  bed, 
His  face,  a  moment  mirror'd,  flash'd  and 

fled! 

'  O  bairns  ! — what  further  tale  have  I  to 

tell? 

How  could  I  fight  against  a  fate  so  fell  ? 
Strive  as  I  might,  awaking  or  asleep, 
I  found  my  eyes  in  fascination  deep 
Follow  Hugh  Scott,  and,  till  my  heart  went 

wild, 
He  haunted  me  from  spot  to  spot,  and 

smiled. 

Then,  unaware,  to  notice  I  began 
That  he  was  trim  and  stout,  and  like  a  man, 
That    there  were  'tender   tones  upon  his 

tongue, 
And  that  his  voice  was  sweet  whene'er  he 

sung. 
Nay,  more,  full  soon  his  manners  seemed  to 

me 
More  fine  than  those  of  loftier  degree, 


And  as  for  gold,  though  he  was  humble, 

still 

He  had  a  fortune  in  his  farming  skill. 
Ay,  bairns  !  before  another  Hallow  Night 
The  fairies  to  their  wish  had  worked  me 

quite  ; 
And,    since  his  heart  had  ever    favoured 

Hugh, 

Full  easily  they  won  my  father  too — 
And  when  at  last  Hugh  craved  me  to  be 

his, 
I — fell  upon  his  heart  and  blush' d  for  bliss  ! 

'Ah!  heed  not,  bairns,  though  grand- 
father should  swear 

That,  when  I  tried  the  spell,  himsel'  was 
there, 

And,  when  I  saw  the  phantom  in  the  room, 

Again,  was  near  me,  keeking  through  the 
gloom  ; 

And  that  his  craft  and  cunning  were  the 
charms 

Which  cheated  me  and  drew  me  to  his 
arms. 

Nay  !  nay  !  right  solemnly,  with  song  and 
spell, 

And  the  old  customs  that  they  love  so  well, 

Serve  the  good  fays  this  night — be  bold ! 
be  brave  ! 

And  though  they  may  not  give  you  all  ye 
crave, 

Be  sure  that  you  will  find,  as  I  have  found, 

Their  choice  right  wise,  and  all  their  coun- 
sels sound, 

And  bless  for  many  a  year  the  love  and 
light 

They  spin  for  happy  hearts,  on  Hallow 
Night.' 


AN  ENGLISH  ECLOGUE. 

1  He  crept  close  to  Creation's  brim,  and  heard  a 
roar  like  water.' 

TIMOTHY. 

WELL,  here's  the  cuckoo  come  again,  after 

the  barley  sowing, 
Down  on  the  duck-pond  in  the  lane  the 

white-weed  is  a-blowing, 
The  gorse  has  got  its  coat  of  gold,  and 

smells  as  sweet  as  clover, 
The  lady-smocks  are  blowing   bold,    the 

primroses  nigh  over, 

Q2 


228 


NORTH  COAST,  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


On  field  and  fold  all  things  look  fair,  and 

lambkins  white  are  leaping, 
The  speckled  snakes  crawl  here  and  there, 

— but  Holy  Tommie's  sleeping. 

JACOB. 
Ah,  him  that  used  to  work  with  Crew    ! 

Crewe  told  me  how  he  blundered. 
He  used  to  preach.      I  heard  him  too. 

LORD!  how  he  groaned  and  thundered! 
The  women  shrieked  like  sucking-swine, 

the  men  roared  out  like  cattle, 
But  seem'd  to  think  it  mighty  fine  ! 

TIMOTHY. 

All  trash  and  stuff  and  tattle  ! 
He  lost  his  head  through  meddling  so  with 

things  that  don't  concern  us ; 
When  questioning  too  close  we  go,  'tis  little 

GOD  will  learn  us  ; 
To  squeeze  the  crops  'tis  hard  enough  from 

His  dry  ground  abo  it  us, 
But  sowing  t'other  world  is  stuff,  -  it  gets  its 

crops  without  us ! 

JACOB. 
That's  where  it  lies  !    We  get  no  good  by 

asking  questions,  neighbour : 
'Tis  Parsons  cook  our  Sunday  food,  while 

we  are  hard  at  labour : 
This  world  needs  help  upon  its  way,  for 

men  feed  one  another, 
And  why  do  we  give  Parsons  pay  ? — if  not 

to  manage  t'other? 

TIMOTHY. 

You're  right !   No  man  as  grunts  and  grides 

at  this  here  world  has  thriven  ; 
Mutton  won't  drop  in  our  insides  though 

we  do  gape  at  heaven  ! 
Why,  Tommie's  cheek  was  ruddy  red,  as 

rosy  as  an  apple, 
Till  Methodism  filled  his  head,  and  he  was 

seen  at  chapel, 
Found  out  that  he'd  received  a  call,  grew 

dismal,  dull,  and  surly, 
Read  tracts  at  work,  big  tracts  and  small, 

went  praying  late  and  early, 
And  by  and  by  began,  poor  fool,  to  argue 

with  the  doubting, 
And  though  he'd  scarcely  been  to  school, 

began  his  public  spouting. 
I  wasn't  blind — and  soon  I  found  how  he 

let  matters  go  here,— 


While  he  was  tilling  heavenly  ground  things 

suffered  down  below  here  : 
Through  want  of  feed,  the  hens  did  die,  the 

horses  next  grew  useless, 
For  lack  o'  milking  by  and  by  the  very 

grew  juiceless ; 
And  when  I  sought  him  out,  and  swore 

rage  and  consternation, 
Why,  Tommie  sigh'd,  and  snivell'd 

and  talk'd  about  salvation  \ 
'  Salvation's  mighty  well,'  says  I,  right  mad 

with  my  disaster, 
'  I  want  to  save    my  property  ;    so  find 

another  master ! ' 
He  didn't  grumble  or  resist,   though  he 

seemed  broken-hearted, 
But  slipped  a  tract  into  my  fist  the  morning 

he  departed ; 
Ay,  got  a  place  next  day  with  Crewe,  who 

knew  the  lad  was  clever, 
But  dawdled  as  he  used  to  do,  and  preached 

as  much  as  ever. 


, 


JACOB. 
But  Crewe  soon  sent  him  packing  too — 

just  the  sort  of  fellow  ; 
Why,  ev'n  when  Parson  calls,  old  Crewe 

grunts,  grumbles,  and  looks  yellow  ! 

TIMOTHY. 

He  got  another  master,  though,  but  soon 
began  to  tire  him  ; 

His  wages  sank  and  sank,  and  so  no  farmer 
here  would  hire  him  ; 

And  soon,  between  that  world  and  this, 
poor  Tommie  grew  more  mournful, 

His  worldly  ways  went  all  amiss — the  coun- 
try folk  looked  scornful — 

And  last  the  blessed  Methodists  grew  tired, 
and  would  not  hear  him, 

And  wouldn't  heed  his  talk  inspired,  and 
shrank  from  sitting  near  him. 

JACOB. 

With  Methodists  'tis  just  the  way.  Give  me 
the  High  Church,  neighbour. 

TIMOTHY. 

'Why  don't  you  be  a  man?'  said  they, 
'  keep  clean  and  do  your  labour  ? ' 

And  what  d'ye  think  that  Tommie  cried  ? — 
'  I  don't  play  shilly-shally  ; 

If  I'm  to  serve  my  LORD  and  Guide,  'twill 
be  continually  : 


AN  ENGLISH  ECLOGUE— A   SCOTTISH  ECLOGUE. 


229 


You  think  that  you  can  cheat  and  scoff  from 

Sunday  on  to  Sunday, 
And  put  the  LORD  ALMIGHTY  off  by  howl- 
ing out  on  one  day  ; 
But    if   you    seek    salvation,   know,   your 

feelings  must  be  stronger.' 
And  holy  Tommie  would  not  go  to  chapel 

any  longer. 
Learned  sense?  Not  he!  Reformed?  Pooh, 

pooh  !  but  moped  and  fretted  blindly, 
Because  the  precious  praying  crew  had  used 

him  so  unkindly. 
His  back  grew  bare,  his  life  grew  sore,  his 

brain  grew  dreadful  airy, 
He  thought  of  t'other  world  the  more  'cause 

this  seemed  so  contrary  ; 
Went  wandering  on  the  river-side,  and  in 

the  woods  lay  lurking, 
Gaped  at  the  sky  in  summer-tide  when  other 

men  were  working, 
And  once  (I  saw  him)  watch'd  the  skies, 

where  a  wild  lark  was  winging, 
With  tears  a-shining  in  his  eyes, — because 

the  lark  was  singing  ! 
Last  harvest-time  to  me  he  came,  and  begged 

for  work  so  sadly, 
Show'd  for  his  former  ways  such  shame, 

and  look'd  so  sick  and  badly, 
I  had  not  heart  to  give  him  pain,  but  put 

him  out  a-reaping, 
But,  LORD  !  the  same  tale  o'er  again — he 

worked  like  one  half-sleeping. 
'  Be  off ! '  says  I,  '  you  lazy  lout,1  and  all  the 

rest  stood  sneering. 
'Master,'  says  he,  '  you're  right,  I  doubt, — 

the  LORD  seems  hard  o'  hearing  ! 
I  thought  I  could  fulfil  full  clear  the  call 

that  I  had  gotten, 
But  here's  another  harvest  here,  and  all  my 

life  seems  rotten. 
"  The  Methodists  are  dull  as  stone,  the  High 

Church  folk  are  lazy, 
And  even  when  I  pray  alone,  the  ways  of 

Heaven  seem  hazy. 
Religion  don't  appear  to  me  to  keep  a  lad 

from  sad  things, 
And  though  the  world  is  fine  to  see,  'tis  full 

of  cruel  bad  things. 
Why,  I  can't  walk  in  woodland  ways,  and 

see  the  flowers  a-growing, 
And  on  the  light  green  meadows  gaze,  or 

watch  the  river  flowing, 
But  even  here,  where  things  look  fine,  out 

creeps  the  speckled  adder, 


Or  snakes  crawl  in  the  golden  shine,  and  all 

creation's  sadder. 
The  better  I  have  seemed  to  grow,  the  worse 

all  things  have  gone  with  me, 
It  beats  me  out  and  out,  and  so — I  wish  the 

LORD  was  done  with  me ! ' 
And  after  these    same  words  were  said, 

Tommie  grew  paler,  stiller, 
And  by  and  by  he  took  to  bed,  and  quickly 

he  grew  iller : 
And  when  the    early  new-year    rain  was 

yellowing  pool  and  river, 
He  closed  his  eyes,  and  slipt  his  chain,  and 

fell  to  sleep  for  ever. 

JACOB. 

'Tis  clear  enough,  he'd  lost  his  wit— the 
chapel  set  it  turning. 

TIMOTHY. 

Now,  this  is  how  I  look  at  it,  although  I've 

got  no  learning  : 
In  this  here  world,  to  do  like  him  is  nothing 

but  self-slaughter, — 
He  crept  close  to   Creation's  brim,    and 

heard  a  roar  like  water, 
His  head  went  round,  his  limbs  grew  stiff, 

his  blood  lost  life  and  motion, — 
Like  one  who  stands  upon  a  cliff  and  sees 

the  roaring  Ocean.  .  .  . 
But  there's  the  Parson  at  his  gate,  with 

Doctor  Barth,  his  crony  ; 
Some  of  these  days  the  old  chap's  weight 

will  kill  that  precious  pony  ! 
Ah,  he ' s  the  man  whose  words  don't  fail  to 

keep  one  sage  and  steady  ! 
Wife,  here  be  Parson  !   Draw  some  ale,  and 

set  the  table  ready. 


A   SCOTTISH  ECLOGUE. 

1  The  Lord  on  him  forgot  to  put  His  mark' 
SANDIE. 

O  LORD  above,  swift  is  Thy  wrath  and  deep! 
And  yet  by  grace  Thou  sanctionest  Thy 

sheep ; 

And  blest  are  they  who  till  the  day  o'  doom 
Like  haddocks  bear  the  marking  of  Thy 

thoomb  ; 
And  curst,  in  spite  of  works  and  prayers, 

are  they 
On  whom  Thy  mark  has  ne'er  been  printed 

sae. 


NORTH  COAST,    AND   OTHER  POEMS. 


For  while  the  non-elected  lie  beneath, 
And  fast  in  flaming  fire,  and  gnash  their 

teeth, 
Above  their  heads,  where  streams  of  honey 

spring. 
Thine  Elders  stand  in  shining  sarks,  and 

sing, 
Blessing  Thy  Name  for  present  gifts  and 

past  .  .  . 
O  wife,  John  Galloway  is  gone,  at  last ! 


JEANIE. 

Dead?  Weel,  we  all  are  bound  to  GOD'S 
abode, 

And  John  has  started  first  upon  the  road. 

A  Christian  man  and  kind  was  John,  in- 
deed, 

And  free  of  siller  unto  folk  in  need  : 

Ay,  many  a  hearth  will  want  now  John  is 
cold! 

But  GOD  will  give  him  back  his  gifts 
tenfold. 

SANDIE. 

0  Jeanie  Gourlay  !  keep  thy  clapper  still ; 
It  talks  o'  things  you  understand  but  ill : 

1  doubt,  I  sorely  doubt,  John  Galloway 
Is  'neath  the  oxter  *  o1  the  De'il  this  day  ! 
True,  in  the  way  of  sinful  flesh,  his  mind 
Was  charitable,  and  his  heart  was  kind  ; 
But  Light  he  lacked  as  long  as  he  drew 

breath, 

And  lost  the  Eldership  before  his  death  ; 
And  he  had  many  a  ghostly  whispering 
To  tell  he  was  a  miserable  thing, 
Doom'd  by  the  Wisdom  of  the  Just  to  be 
Condemn' d  with  those  who  graceless  live 

and  dee. 
Ay,   grace,    I    fear,  John    Galloway    was 

denied, 
Though  loud  and  oft  for  grace  he  groaned 

and  cried. 

'  Sandie,'  he  used  to  say,  '  I  fear,  I  fear 
I  have  no  right  among  the  holy  here  ; 
I  fear,  I  fear  that  I  am  in  the  dark — 
The  LORD  on  me  forgot  to  put  His  mark  ! 
I  canna  steel  my  heart  to  folk  who  sin, 
I  canna  put  my  thoughts  to  discipline  ; 
Oft  when  I  pray,  I  hear  Him  whisper  plain, 
"Jock  Galloway,    pray  awa',   but  'tis  in 

vain ; " — 

*  Armpit. 


Nae  sweet  assurance  arms  me  'gainst  the 

De'il, 

Nae  happy  faith,  like  that  my  fellows  feel  ; 
I  long  for  GOD,  I  beg  Him  on  my  knee, 
But  fear  He  hath  to  wrath  prevision'd  me  ! ' 

JEANIE. 

Poor  man  !  his  strife  was  sore  ;  but,  Sandie, 
mind, 

Nae  man  can  tell  what  folks  are  pre- 
destined ; 

Ev'n  Sandie  Gourlay  may  be  one  the  De'il 

Hath  liberty  to  catch  within  his  creel ! 

SANDIE. 

Oh,  blasphemy  !    Thou  fool,   forbear  and 

cease ! 

The  sign  o'  grace  is  perfect  faith  and  peace, 
Such  as  the  LORD,  in  spite  o'  many  a  cross, 
Vouchsafes  to  men  like  me  and  neighbour 

Ross. 

But  Galloway  ever  was  a  braxie  sheep, 
A  whining  thing  who  dug  his  doubts  too 

deep. 
Why,    mind  ye,   when   old    Robin   Caird 

himsel' — 

A  heretic,  a  rogue,  a  man  o'  Bel, 
Averring  written  Scripture  was  a  lee, 
And  doubting  GOD,  stretch'd  out  his  limbs 

to  dee, 

John  by  the  sinner  knelt  and  offered  prayers: 
'  LORD  GOD,'  he  said,  'pity  his  old  white 

hairs  ! 

Be  kind  unto  him  !  Take  him  unto  Thee  ! ' 
And  bought  the  coffin,  paid  the  burial 

fee. 
'Sandie,'  he  said,  when  Caird  was  in  his 

grave, 

'  I  doubt  I  am  less  holy  than  the  lave  :  f 
My  blood  is  water,  I  am  weak  o'  brain, — 

0  LORD,    it  broke  my    heart  to  see  his 

pain  ! 

1  thought — I   dared  to    think — if  /  were 

GOD, 
Poor  Caird  should  never  gang  so  dark  a 

road ; 
I  thought — ay,  dared  to  think,  the  LORD 

forgi'e  ! — 

The  LORD  was  crueller  than  I  could  be  ; 
Forgetting  GOD  is  just,  and  knoweth  best 
What  folk  should  burn  in  fire,  what  folk  be 

blest.' 

t  The  rest. 


A   SCOTTISH  ZCLOGUE. 


231 


Such  was  his  nature,  neither  strong  nor 

deep, — 
Unlike  the  stern  strong  shepherds  of  His 

sheep. 

We  made  an  Elder  of  John  Galloway  ! 
Large  seemed  his  heart,  he  ne'er  was  known 

to  stray  ; 

But  he  had  little  strength  or  wrath  severe — 
He  soften'd  at  the  sinful  pauper's  tear  ; 
He  push'd  his  purse  and  pleaded  like  a 

fool 
For  every  lassie  on  the  cuttie-stool. 

JEANIE. 

Where  had  the  parish  bairns  sae  kind  a 
friend  ? 

SANDIE. 

Bairns  ?  did  he  teach  them  grace,  and  make 
them  mend  ? 

At  Sunday  School  what  lad  or  lass  had 
care 

For  fear  of  flaming  Hell,  if  John  was 
there, — 

Questioning  blushing  brats  upon  his  knees, 

And  slyly  slipping  in  their  hands— baw- 
bees?* 

Once  while  he  talked  to  me  o'  life  and 
death, 

I  smelt  the  smell  o'  whisky  in  his  breath. 

'Drinking  again,  John  Galloway?'  I 
said  ; 

As  gray  as  this  pipe-reek,  he  hung  his 
head. 

'  O  Sandie,  Sandie  ! '  he  replied,  '  I  ken 

I  am  indeed  the  weakest  man  of  men. 

Strange  doubts  torment  me  daily,  and, 
alas! 

I  try  to  drown  them  in  the  poison'd  glass. 

By  fits  I  fear,  and  in  my  soul  I  say, 

LORD,  is  Thy  mark  on  poor  John  Gallo- 
way? 

And  sorely  troubled,  stealing  slyly  out, 

I  try  in  drink  to  drown  the  imp  o'  Doubt. ' 

Woman,  is  this  the  man  ye  would  defend  ? 

Nay,  wheesht  awhile,  and  hearken  to  his 
end. 

When  he  fell  sick  in  Martinmas,  his  fears 

Grew  deeper  far  ;  I  found  him  oft  in  tears  ; 

Though  from  the  Prophets  of  God's  wrath 
I  read, 

He  hearken' d,  but  was  little  comforted, 

*  Halfpence. 


And  even  '  Revelations '  had  no  power 
To  soothe  the    pangs  of    his    departing 

hour. 

A  week  before  he  left  this  vale  of  woe, 
He  at  his  window  sat,  and  watched  the 

Snow 

Falling  and  falling  down  without  a  sound, 
Poured  slowly  from  GOD'S  hand  upon  the 

ground : 
1  See,  Sandie,  how  it  snaws  ! '  I  heard  him 

say; 
4  How  many  folk  are  cold,  cold,  cold  this 

day  ! 
How  many  want  the  fire  that's  warming 

me ! 
How  many  starve  ! — and  yet — why  should 

it  be  ? ' 
And  when  I  took  the  Book,  explained,  and 

read, 
He  only  gave  a  groan    and    shook    his 

head. 

'  Clearer  and  clearer  I  perceive  my  sin, 
How  I  to  grace  may  never  enter  in  ; 
That   Book  is  for  the  strong,  but  I  am 

weak,' 
And  trembled,  and  a  tear  was  on  his  cheek. 

JEANIE. 

Poor  man  !  poor  man  !  small  peace  on  earth 
he  found. 

SANDIE. 

The  day  he  died,   he    called    the    Elders 

round, 
Shook  hands,  and  said,  '  Friends,  though  I 

gang  from  here, 
Down  under  earth,    all  will    at    last    be 

clear. 
Too  long  have  I    been    dwelling  in   the 

dark, 

The  LORD  on  me  forgot  to  put  His  mark, 
GOD  help  me  ! '    And,  till  he  was  cold  as 

clay, 

His  foolish  lips  had  little  more  to  say  ; 
Yet  after  we  had  laid  him  down  in  dust, 
Weak  to  the  last  we  found  him,  and  un- 
just ; 
For    when    his    will  was  read,    unto  our 

shame, 

No  holy  man  was  mentioned  in  the  same  ! 
But  he  had  left  what  little  gold  he  had 
To  Caird's  sick  widow  and  her  lass  and 

lad! 


232 


NORTH  COAST,    AND   OTHER  POEMS. 


THE  SCAITH  0'  BARTLE. 

Fathoms  deep  the  ship  doth  lie, 

Wreath'd  with  ocean  weed  and  shellt 
Still  and  deep  the  shadows  lie, 

Dusky  as  a  forest  dell : 
Tangled  in  the  twisted  sail, 

With  the  breathing  of  the  Sea, 
Stirs  the  Man  who  told  this  tale, 

Staring  upward  dreamilie. 

I  LAID  him  here,  and  scarcely  wept  ;  but 

look! 
His  grave  is  green  and  wild  and  like  a 

wave, 
And  strewn  with  ocean-shells  instead  of 

flowers. 

You  saw  him  long  ago,  on  board  the 

Erne, 
Cod-fishing  in  Newfoundland,  and  (you 

mind  ?) 

We  drank  a  gill,  all  three,  the  very  day 
Before  the  Erne  went  down  off  Fitful  Head, 
And  all  the  crew  were  drown'd  but  brother 

Dan. 
Strange,  that  a  man  who  faced  so  many  a 

storm, 
And  stood  on  splitting  planks  and  never 

quail' d, 

And  swam  to  save  his  life  a  dozen  times, 
Should  ever  die  ashore  !     Why,  from  the 

first, 
We  twins  were  meant  for  sailors  : — GOD 

Himself 

Planted  a  breeze  in  both  our  brains  to  blow 
Our  bodies  up  and  down  His  calms  and 

storms. 
Never  had  wilder,  stormier  year  been 

known 

Here  in  the  clachan,  than  the  very  year 
When  Dan  and  I  were  born  ; — waters  and 

winds 
Roar'd  through  the  wintry  season,  and  the 

sounds 
And  sights  weigh' d  on  our  Highland 

mother's  heart, 
Giving  her  whims  and  moods  in  which  the 

clay 
Beneath  her  heart  was  fashion' d  ;  and  in 

March 

The  Scaith  came  down  the  valley,  scream- 
ing past 
Her  ears  the  very  hour  that  we  were  born. 


When  other  boys  were  mumping  at  the 

school, 

I  went  as  cabin-lad  on  board  a  whaler, 
And  Dan  took  up  his  canvas-bag,  tied  up 
His  serk  and  comb  and  brush,  with  two  or 

three 
Big  home-baked  bannocks  and  a  lump  of 

cheese, 
Kiss'd  mother,  (that's  her  grave  beside  his 

own,) 
And  walk'd  to  Aberdeen,  where  soon  he 

found 

A  berth  on  board  a  brig — the  Jessie  Gray, 
Bound  south  for  Cadiz.     After    that   for 

years 

We  drifted  up  and  down ; — and  when  we  met 
Down  in  the  Forth,  and  journey'd  home 

together, 
We  both  were  twenty,  Dan  was  poor  as 

ever, 
But  I  had  saved.    How  changed  he  look'd ! 

how  fine  ! 
Brown  cheek  and  bit  o"  whisker,  hands  like 

steel, 

A  build  as  sturdy  as  a  mountain  fir's, — 
Ay,  every  inch  a  sailor  !    Then,  the  tales 
We  had  for  one  another  ! — tales  of  storms 
And  sights  on  land,    pranks  play'd  and 

places  seen  !— 

But,  '  Bob,  I'm  tired  of  being  on  the  seas, 
The  life's  a  hard  one  at  the  best,'  says  Dan ; 
And  I  was  like  a  fool  and   thought  the 

same. 
So  home  we  came,  found  father  dead  and 

gone, 
And  mother  sorely  push'd  ;  and  round  her 

neck 
We  threw  our  arms,  and  kiss'd  her,  and 

she  cried, 

And  we  cried  too,  and  I  took  out  my  pay 
And  pour'd  it  in  her  lap  ;  but  Dan  look'd 

grieved, 
And,  glancing  from  the  pay  to  mother, 

cried, 
'  I'll  never,  never  go  to  sea  again  ! ' 

'Tis  thirty  years  ago,  and  yet  right  well 
I  mind  it  all.     How  pleasant  for  a  time 
Was  life  on  land  :  the  tousling  with  the 

girls, 

The  merry-making  in  the  public-house, 
The    cosy    bed    on    winter    nights.      We 

work'd — 


THE  SCAITH  a   BARTLE. 


233 


I  at  the  fishing,  Dan  at  making  nets — 
And  kept  old  mother  for  a  year  and  more. 
But  ere  the  year  was  out,  the  life  grew  dull : 
We  never  heard  the  wind  blow,  but  we 

thought 

Of  sailing  on  the  sea, — we  got  a  knack 
Of  lying  on  the  beach  and  listening 
To  the  great  waters.      Still,  for  mother's 

sake, 

Ashore  we  had  to  tarry.     By  and  by, 
The   restlessness  grew  worse,  and  show'd 

itself 

In  other  ways, — taking  a  drop  too  much, 
Fighting  and  cutty-stooling — and  the  folk 
Began  to  shake  their  heads.  Amid  it  all, 
One  night  when  Dan  was  reading  out 

God's  Book, 

(That  bit  about  the  Storm,  where  Peter  tries 
To  walk  on  water,  and  begins  to  sink, ) 
Old  mother  sigh'd  and  seem'd  to  go  to 

sleep, 
And  when  we  tried  to  wake  her,  she  was 

dead. 

With    sore,    sore    hearts  we   laid  poor 

mother  down  ; 
And  walk'd  that  day  up  yonder  cliffs,  and 

lay 

A  hearkening  to  the  Sea  that  wash'd  be- 
neath : 

Far,  far  away  we  saw  a  sail  gleam  wet 
Out  of  a  rainy  spot  below  the  line 
Where  sky  and  water  meet ;  the  Deep  was 

calm, 
And  overhead  went  clouds  whose  shadows 

floated 
Slowly  beneath,  and  here  and  there  were 

places 
Purple  and  green  and  blue,  and  close  to 

land 

The  red-sail'd  fish-boats  in  a  violet  patch. 
I  look'd  at  brother  Dan,  Dan  look'd  at 

me, — 
And    that    same    morning,   off  we    went 

again  ! 

No  rest  for  us  on  land  from  that  day 

forth. 

We  grew  to  love  the  waters  ;  they  became 
Part  of  our  flesh  and  blood  ;  the  Sea,  the 

Sea, 
The  busy  whistling  round  the  foam-girt 

world, 


Was  all  our  pleasure.     Now  and  then  we 

met, — 

Once  in  a  year  or  two,  and  never  came 
To  Scotland  but  we  took  a  journey  here 
To  look  on  mother's  grave,  and  spend  a  day 
With    old    companions.      But    we    never 

thought 

Of  resting  long,  and  never  hoped  to  die 
Ashore,  like  mother  :  we  had  fix'd  it,  Jack, 
That  we  must  drown  some  day.     At  last, 

by  luck, 

We  ran  together.     Dan  had  got  a  place 
As  captain  of  a  brig,  and,  press' d  by  him, 
They  made  me  mate.     Ten  years  we  sail'd 

together, 
From  Liverpool  to  New  South  Wales  and 

back; 
And  we  were  lads  no  more,  but  staid,  strong 

men, 

Forty  and  upward, — yet  with  kibble  arms, 
Brown  cheeks,  and  cheerful  hearts.     Then 

the  ill  wind 

That  blows  no  good  to  anyone  began, 
And  brought  us  back  to  Scotland,  to  this 

place 
Where  we  were  born  and  bred. 

Now,  mark  you,  Jack, 
Even  a  sailor  is  but  flesh  and  blood, 
Though  out  upon  the  water  he  can  laugh 
At  women  and  their  ways  ;  a  run  on  shore, 
A  splash  among  the  dawties  and  the  drink, 
Soon  tires,    soon    tires — then  hey  !    away 

again 

To  the  wild  life  that's  worthy  of  a  man  ! 
At  forty,  though,  a  sailor  should  be  wise, 
And  'ware  temptation  :  whole  a  sailor,  free, 
But  only  half  a  sailor,  though  afloat, 
When  wedded.    Don't  you  guess?  Though 

Dan  was  old, 
His  head  was  turn'd,  while  in  the  clachan 

here, 

And  by  a  woman, — Effie  Paterson, 
The  daughter  of  a  farmer  on  the  hills, 
And  only  twenty.     Bonnie,  say  you  ?    Ay  \ 
As  sweet  a  pout  as  ever  grew  on  land  ; 
But  soft  and  tender,  with  a  quiet  face 
That  needed  the  warm  hearth  to  light  it  up, 
And  went  snow-pallid  at  a  puff  of  wind 
Or  whiff  of  danger.     When  I  saw  the  trap, 
I  tried  my  best  to  wheedle  Dan  away, 
Back  to  the  brig  ;  but,  red  as  ricks  on  fire, 
He  glinted  with  those  angry  eyes  of  his, 


234 


NORTH  COAST,   AND   OTHER  POEMS. 


And  linger'd.  Then,  'twas  nearly  time  to 
sail ; 

I  talk'd  of  going,  and  it  all  came  out  : 

He  meant  to  marry,  Jack  ! — and  not  con- 
tent 

With  marrying,  he  meant  to  stop  ashore  ! 

Why,  if  a  lightning  flash  had  split  our 

craft, 
I  should  have  wonder'd  less.     But,  '  Bob,' 

says  he, 

'  I  love  this  lassie  as  I  never  thought 
'Twas  in  my  heart  to  love  ;   and  I  have 

saved  ; 

And  I  am  tired  of  drifting  here  and  there 
On  yonder  waters  :  I  have  earn'd  my  rest, 
And  mean  to  stop  ashore  until  I  die.' 
'Twas  little  use  to  argue  things  with  Dan 
When    he   had  settled   aught    within   his 

mind  ; 

So  all  I  said  was  vain.     What  could  1  do 
But  put  a  sunny  face  upon  it  all, 
And  bid  him  hasten  on  the  day,  that  I 
Might  see  his  wedding,  and  be  off  again  ? 

Yet  soon  I  guess'd,  before  the  wedding 

day, 

That  Effie  did  not  care  a  cheep  for  Dan, 
But  scunner' d  at  his  brave  rough  ways  and 

tales 

Of  danger  on  the  deep.     His  was  a  voice 
Meant  for  the  winds,  with  little  power  to 

whisper 
The  soft  sleek  things  that  make  the  women 

blush, 
And  tingle,   and  look  sweet.     Moreover, 

Dan 

Was  forty,  and  the  lassie  but  a  child. 
I  saw  it  all,  but  dared  not  speak  my  thought ! 
For  Dan  had   money,    Effie's  folks  were 

poor, 

And  Dan  was  blind,  and  Effie  gave  consent, 
And  talk  was  no  avail.  The  wedding  guests 
Went  up  to  Effie's  home  one  pleasant  day, 
The  minister  dropp'd  in,  the  kirk-bells  rang, 
And  all  was  over.  'Twas  a  summer  morn, 
The  blue  above  was  fleck' d  with  feathery 

down, 
The  Sea  was  smooth,  and  peaceful,  and  the 

kirk 

Stood  mossy  here  upon  the  little  hill, 
And  seem'd  to  smile  a  blessing  over  all. 


And  Effie?    Ah  !  keep  me  from  women, 

Jack! 
ive  them  a  bit  o'   sunshine — and    they 

smile, 
Give  them  a  bit  o'   darkness — and    they 

weep  ; 
But  smiles  and  tears  with  them  are  easy 

things, 
And  cheat  ye  like  the  winds.     On  such  a 

day, 

With  everybody  happy  roundabout, 
Effie  look'd  happy  too  ;  and  if  her  face 
Flush'd  and  was  fearful,  that  was  only  joy  ; 
For  when  a  woman  blushes,  who  can  tell 
Whether  the  cause  be  gladness,  pride,  or 

shame  ? 
And  Dan  (God  bless  him  !)  look'd  as  young 

as  you, 
Trembled  and  redden'd   lass-like,    and  I 

swear, 

Had  he  not  been  a  sailor,  would  have  cried. 
So  I  was   cheer'd,  next  day,   when  off  I 

went 

To  take  his  post  as  captain  of  the  brig, 
And  1  forgot  my  fears,  and  thought  them 

wrong, 

And  went  across  the  seas  with  easy  heart, 
Thinking  I  left  a  happy  man  behind. 

But  often,  out  at  sea,  I  thought  of  Dan, 
Wonder'd  if  he  was  happy.      When  the 

nights 

Were  quiet,  still,  and  peaceful,  I  would  lie 
And  listen  to  the  washing  of  the  waves, 
And  think  :  '  I  wonder  if  this  very  light 
Is  dropping  far  away  on  poor  old  Dan? 
And  if  his  face  looks  happy  in  it,  while 
He  sleeps  by   Effie's   side  ? '      On  windy 

nights 
I  used  to  think  of  Dan  with  trouble  and 

fear; 
And  often,  when  the  waves  were  mountains 

high, 

And  we  were  lying-to  before  the  wind, 
The  screaming  surges  seem'd  to  take  the 

shape 

Of  this  old  clachan,  and  I  seem'd  to  hear 
Dan  calling  me  ;  and  I  would  drink  the  salt, 
And  pace  the  deck  with  all  my  blood  on  fire, 
Thinking — '  If  Dan  were  driving  on   out 

here, 

Dashing  and  weather-beaten,  never  still, 
He  would  be  happier  ! ' 


THE  SCAITH  0'  BARTLE. 


235 


Ay  !  though  the  Storm 
Roll'd  on  between  us,  voices  came  from  Dan 
To  tell  me  he  was  lonely  on  the  land. 
Often,  when  I  was  sailing  in  the  ship, 
He  crept  about  these  caves  and  watch'd 

the  Moon 

Silv'ring  the  windless  places  of  the  sea, 
And  thought  of  me  !  or  on  the  beach  he 

lay, 

And  wearied  to  the  breaking  of  the  waves  ! 
Or  out  from  land  he  row'd  his  boat,  and 

gazed 

Wistfully  eastward  !  or  on  windy  nights 
He  speel'd  yon  cliffs  above  the  shore,  and 

set 

His  teeth  together  in  the  rain  and  wind, 
Straining  eyes  seaward,  seeking  lights   at 

sea, 

And  pacing  up  and  down  upon  the  brink 
As  if  he  trode   the   decks  !     Why,  things 

like  those 

Saved  him  from  sinking,  salted  all  his  blood, 
And  soothed  his  heartache.  Wind  and 

wave  are  far 
More  merciful  than  a  young  woman's  heart ! 

Why,  had  she  been  a  bickering  hizzie, 

fill'd 

With  fire  and  temper,  stubborn  as  a  whin, 
And  cushlingmushling  o'er  a  cheerless  fire, 
Dan  might  have  brought  her  round  :  that 

was  the  work 
He  understood  full  well ;    and,  right  or 

wrong, 

He  would  have  been  the  Skipper  to  the  end. 
But  though  a  man  who  has  been  train' d  at 

sea, 
Holding  a  hard  strong  grip  on  desperate 

men, 

Can  sink  his  voice  and  play  a  gentle  part 
In  sunny  seasons,  he  has  little  power 
To  fight  with  women. 's  weapons.     Dan,  be 

sure, 

Loved  Erne  with  a  love  the  deeper  far 
And  tenderer  because  he  had  been  bred 
On  the  rough  brine  ;  but  when,  from  day 

to  day, 

He  met  a  weary  and  a  waning  face, 
That  tried  to  smile,  indeed,  but  could  not 

smile, 
And  saw  the  tears  where  never  tears  should 

be, 
Yet  never  met  an  angry  look  or  word, 


What  could  he  do  ?     He  loved  the  lass  too 

well 
To  scold  ;  tried  soothing  words,  but  they 

were  spent 
Upon  a  heart  where  the  cold  crancreuch 

grew; 
And,  when  the  sorrow  grew  too  sharp  to 

bear, 
Stole  sicken'd  from  the  dwelling.     Plain  he 

saw 
The  lass  was  dreary,  though  she  kept  so 

still, 
And  loved  him  not,  though  nothing  harsh 

was  said, 

But  fretted,  and  grew  thin,  and  haunted  him 
With  a  pale  face  of  gentleness  and  grief. 

0  Jack,  Jack,   Jack!    of   all   the   things 

accurst, 

Worse  than  a  tempest  and  the  rocks  ahead, 
Is  misty  weather,  not  a  breath  of  wind, 
And  the  low  moaning  of  some  unseen  shore  ! 
Homeless  and  sad  and  troubled  by  her  face, 
If  Dan  had  let  his  heart  and  brain  keep  still, 
Let  the  sick  mildew  settle  on  his  soul, 
He  would  have  shrunk  into  a  wretched  thing 
The  rains  might  beat  on,  and  the  winds 

might  lash, 

And  ne'er  have  had  the  heart  to  stand  erect, 
And  set  his  teeth,  and  face  them,  and  sub- 
due. 

What  could  he  do,  but  try  to  ease  his  heart 
By  haunting  yonder  beach,  and  glorying 
In  stormy  seasons,  thinking  of  the  life 
He  used  to  lead,  with  ocean-sound  for  ever 
Making  a  second  life  within  his  blood, 
Thinking  of  me,  and  feeling  that  his  soul 
Was  soothed  a  bit  by  his  old  friend  the 
Sea? 

And  Erne,  as  the  dawn  look'd  down  each 

day, 

Turn'd  from  the  happy  shining  of  the  sun, 
In  wanrest  and  in  tears  ;  and  poor  old  Dan 
Dree'd  bitterly  the  dreary  life  on  land. 
No   stanchgrass  ever  heal'd  a  wound  so 

deep  ! 

'Twas  comfort  dwelling  in  so  wild  a  place, 
So  near  to  open  water  ;  but  for  that, 

1  do  not  think  he  could  have  borne  to  dwell 
Pining  ashore.    His  trouble  grew  and  grew : 
No  corsy-belly  warm'd  at  Erne's  fire, 

No  doctor's  watch  tick'd  by  the  jiz/.en-bed, 


NORTH  COAST,   AND   OTHER   POEMS. 


No  sound  of  tiny  footfalls  fill'd  the  house 
With  happy  cheer  ;    the  dull  and  lifeless 

mood 
Grew  on  the  wife  ;   her  sense  of  shame 

seem'd  gone  ; 

She  paid  no  heed  to  dress,  or  to  the  house, 
But  faded,  like  a  pale-faced,  listless  flower, 
Grown  in  a  weedy  garden.     Then,  indeed, 
To  see  all  household  goods  neglected  so, 
The  crowsfeet  gathering  round  Effie's  eyes, 
The  ingleside  so  cheerless  and  so  cold, 
Dan  clench'd  his   fists,  and  storm'd  with 

thunder-voice  ; 

But  Effie  only  trembled,  and  was  still, 
Or  threw  her  apron  o'er  her  face  and  wept ; 
And  Dan,  who  never  in  his  life  could  bear 
To    see    a   woman    weep,     pleaded    and 

begg'd,— 
Without  avail.     Then  many  and  many  a 

night 

He  roam'd  the  silent  cliffs  till  peep  of  day, 
Or  join'd  the  fishers,  out  upon  the  sea  ; 
And  many  and  many  a  night  he  thought  he 

heard 

My  voice  a-calling  him.  One  night  of  storm, 
When  the  sky  murmur'd,  and  the  foam- 

fleck'd  sea 
Flash'd  in  the  fireflaught  round  the  shadowy 

cliffs, 

He  fix'd  to  run  away  ; — but  could  not  go, 
Until  he  gazed  on  Effie's  face  once  more  ; 
And  when  he  stole  into  her  room  unheard, 
He  saw  her  sleeping  with  a  happy  smile, 
So  still,  so  sweet,  so  bonnie  in  her  dream, 
So  like  the  shining  lass  she  used  to  be, 
That  his  heart  sank,  he  swaver'd  forth  again, 
And  lay  upon  the  waterside  and  wept, 
And  tho'  the  wind  was  whistling  in  his  eyes, 
Tho'  the  still  fireflaught  flash'd  upon   the 

foam, 

He  felt  too  weak,  too  timid,  and  too  sad, 
To  quit  her  in  the  little  cottage  here, 
And  dree  again  the  dangers  of  the  deep. 

The    house    is    yonder — ay,   the  slated 

house, 

With  little  patch  of  garden.    Mark  the  pool 
Of  water  at  the  door.     Beyond  you  see 
The  line  of  boats,  drawn  high  and  dry,  and 

yonder 

The  dull,  green  water,  with  the  purple  stain 
Out  eastward,   and  the  sunlight  slanting 

through 


Upon  a  sail.     Mark  how  the  clachan  lies 
Down  in  the  gully,  with  the  barren  hills, 
Where  never  ran-tree  waves  its  silver  hair, 
On  either  side.      Look  backward,    now ! 

The  glen, 

Hollow'd  between  the  hills,  goes  inland,  far 
As  eye  can  see — with  yellow  pools  of  rain, 
And  cattle  looking  shadowy  in  the  mists 
Upon  the  slopes.     How  still  and  dull  looks 

all! 

'Tis  plain  you  gather,  with  a  sailor's  eye, 
The  danger.     When  the  rains  have  lasted 

long, 

The  yellow  Waters  (rightly  christen'd  here 
The  Scaith  o'  Bartle)  gather  up  the  glen, 
Suck  in  the  strength  of  flying  mist  and  cloud, 
And,  bursting  from  the  hollows  where  they 

meet, 

Rush  seaward,  with  a  roaring  like  the  sea, 
O'erwhelming  all.     Thrice  has  the  mischief 

come 
In  one-and-twenty  years. 

When  I  came  home, 

A  month  ago,  and  walk'd  across  the  hills 
From  Cardy  town,  I  paused  on  yonder  cliffs, 
And  saw  the  clachan  lying  at  my  feet, — 
The  setting  sun  shining  upon  the  house 
Where   Dan  was  dwelling.     Nought  was 

alter'd  there ! 
The  very  smacks  and  fish-boats  just  the 

same 
As  when  I  quitted.     While   I  stood  and 

gazed, 

I  saw  a  stooping  figure  with  a  staff, 
Standing  hard  by  me  on  the  cliffs,  and  gazing 
Silently  seaward.     As  I  look'd,  he  turn'd, 
And  though  the  face  was  haggard,  worn, 

and  old, 

And  every  hair  upon  the  head  was  gray, 
And  the  fresh  life  about  the  limbs  was  lost, 
I  knew  old  Dan,  and,  shouting  blithely,  ran 
To  hug  him  to  my  heart ;  and  he  turn'd 

white, 

Shaking  like  straw  in  wind,  to  find  'twas  me. 
Then,  when  the  shock  was  over,  and  we 

talk'd, 

He  brighten'd, — as  an  icicle  turns  bright 
When  shone  on.    But  my  heart  was  shock'd 

and  sore ! 

He  was  the  ghost  of  what  he  once  had  been  ; 
His  voice  was  broken,  and  his  welcome 

seem'd 


THE  SCAITH  0'  BARTLE. 


237 


Like  one's   who,   sinking    on  his    pillow, 

smiles 

To  see  a  face  he  loves  before  he  dies  ; 
And  when  his  air  grew  cheerier,  and  at  last 
His  love  for  me  came  lighter  on  his  look, 
His  cheeriness  seem'd  sadder  far  than  all. 
S wavering  down  the  path,  he  took  my  arm, 
Leant  heavily  on  his  staff,  as  if  he  dream'd, 
Talk'd  of  old  times,  and  friends  alive  and 

dead, 

Until  we  halted  at  his  cottage  door  ; 
And,  while  he  lifted  up  the  latch,  he  cast 
His  eyes  to  windward,  read  the  weather 

signs, 
After  old  habit,  ere  he  enter'd  in. 

Effie  was  there, — changed  too  ;  she  wel- 
comed me, 
Moved  but  and  ben  the  house  with  a  light 

step, 

And  smiled  a  bit : — all  women  have  a  smile, 
A  happiness,  a  kind  of  second  self, 
Kept  for  fresh  faces.     Yet  I  saw  full  soon 
The  bield  was  homeless  ;  little  love  was 

there ; 

Ah,  that  was  common  talk  aroundabout ! 
The  first  flush  faded  soon  from  Effie's  face, 
Leaving  it  dull  and  wan  ;  she  moved  about 
Like  a  sick  lassie  risen  from  a  dream  ; 
And  oft,  when  we  were  seated  in  the  lowe, 
She  started,  and  her  colour  went  and  came  ; 
And  though  her  features  wore  a  kind  of  fear, 
There  was  a  light  of  youth  there  :  she  would 

keek 

At  Dan,  whose  eyes  were  fix'd  upon  the  fire, 
Hang  o'er  her  knitting,  breathing  deep,  and 

then 
Hearken  and  hearken,  till  the  soft  bright 

blush 

Died  by  degrees,  her  face  became  composed 
To  pallor,  and  the  light  had  gone  away, 
Leaving  her  sick  and  soopit  once  again. 

At  last,  when  we  were  smoking  in  the 

bield 

One  dull  day  in  November,  Dan  arose 
And  took  his   stick,  and,  beckoning  me, 

went  out : 

I  follow'd  ;  and  he  never  spake  a  word, 
But  gript  me  by  the  arm,  and  walk'd  along, 
Until  we  left  the  clachan  far  behind, 
And  took  a  pathway  winding  up  the  hills. 
For  many  weeks,  at  intervals,  the  rain 


Had  fallen  ;   and  the  hills  were  dreeping 

damp, 
And  down  their  sides  ran   many  streams 

new-born, 

Making  an  eerie  murmur.     Far  away 
Ben  Callachan  was  glimmering  through  a 

mist, 

And  all  round  Bartle  rose  a  vaporous  steam 
Silent  and  white,  with  cattle  here  and  there 
Dismally  looming.     Still  and  dull  was  all — 
So  still,  so  chill  ;  only  the  faint  sharp  stir 
That  is  a  sound,  but  seems  a  click  within 
The  ear  itself ; — save  when  from  far  away 
A  cow  would  low,  and  echoes  faint  and 

far 

Died  inland,  or  when,  blowing  on  the  wind, 
A  cry  came  from  the  sea,  whose  waves  we 

saw 

Beyond  us,  breaking  in  a  shadowy  cloud, 
With  gleams  of  glittering  foam.     But  Dan 

walk'd  on, 
Scarce  heeding  ought ;  and  yet  his  sailor's 

eye 

Took  in  the  signs,  and  glinted  up  and  down 
With  the  old  cunning  ;  but  his  heart  was  full, 
His  voice  was  broken  like  a  weeping  wean's, 
And  as  we  went  along  he  told  me  all. 

All  that  you  guess !  but  somewhat  more 

— a  thought 

Of  later  growth,  a  nettle  in  his  heart — 
That  Effie  was  not  true,  as  wives  should  be  ; 
And  that  her  fairest  thoughts  were  fallen 

things 
That  clung  around  a  fresh  young  lover's 

knees. 

I  stared  at  Dan,  and  hearken'd  in  amaze  1 
His  grip  was  tight  upon  my  arm,  his  face 
White  as  the  snow  on  Callachan,  his  voice 
Shrill  as  a  sea-gull's  shriek  ;  and  all  at  once 
He  waved  his  arms,  turn'd  his  wild  face 

away, 

And  cried  aloud  with  a  full  heart—'  O  God ! 
Why  did  I  ever  cease  to  sail  the  Sea?' 

I  tried  to  argue  with  him — he  was  dumb  ! 
And  yet  I  saw,  had  I  been  daft  enough 
To  echo  him,  he  would  have  hated  me. 
He  only  half  believed  the  things  he  said, 
And  would  have  turn'd  in  wrath  on  any  man 
Who  could  believe  them  true,  and  say  the 

same. 
He  loved  the  braxie  still,  as  few  can  love. 


238 


NORTH  COAST,   AND    OTHER   POEMS. 


Save  the  Good  Shepherd,  who  has  love  for 

all! 
Could  not  have  tholed  to  hear  another's 

thoughts 
Condemn  her !  blamed  himself  for  all  his 

grief! 
And  gladly  would  have  died  beneath  her 

feet, 

To  win  one  word,  one  kiss,  one  shining  look, 
To  show  his  love  had  not  been  quite  in  vain  ! 

But  on  we  fared,  so  fill'd  with  our  own 

thoughts, 

We  scarcely  saw  how  far  away  we  wander'd, 
How  mirk  all  grew,  how  close  the  gather- 
ing clouds 

Drew  to  the  hill-tops,  while  the  cattle  raised 
Their  heads  into  the  dismal  air  and  cried. 
Then,    suddenly,    there  came  a  lightning 

gleam 

That  for  a  moment  lighted  up  the  hills, 
The  far  off  cliffs,  and  the  far  flash  of  foam, 
And  faded, — to  a  sound  as  if  the  earth 
And  heavens  were  torn  asunder.     Soon  the 

storm 
Deepen'd — the  thunder  and  the  lightning 

came 

Ofter  than  dark  or  silence  ;  and  I  felt 
Far   less    myself    on    those    dull   endless 

heights, 

Than  seeing,  hearing,  from  my  ship  at  sea. 
But  Dan  said  little  ;  only,  as  the  drops 
Of  rain  began  to  fall,  he  led  the  way 
Into  a  mountain  shieling,  roof'd  with  turfs, 
Where  we  in  shelter  crouch'd,   and  still 

talk'd  on 

Of  his  dull  ingleside,  his  darken'd  days, 
The  terror  and  the  pain  he  had  to  dree. 
And  '  All  I  care  for  now  is  ended,  Bob  ! 
I  want  to  die,  but  not  to  leave  the  lass 
Untended  and  unhappy.     After  all, 
I   cannot    blame    her  for  her  crancreuch 

face, — 

She  is  so  young — mid-eild  is  past  with  me — 
Be   sure   that    she  would  love  me  if  she 

could ! ' 
And  then  he  glower'd  out  on  the  dark,  and 

groan'd, 
'  Would  I  were  in  my  grave  ! — would   I 

were  doom'd 
Among  the  waves  ! — would  I  were  far  out 

yonder, 
Praying  and  sinking  in  a  boat  at  sea  1 ' 


And  I  was  silent  ;  but  the  elements 
Made  answer.     With  a  clash  like  iron  fell 
The   headlong   torrent   of    the    soot-black 

clouds, 
Drowning  the  thunders  with  its  dreesome 

cry, 

Birming  above,  around,  and  smiting  earth 
With  strength  of  stone.     Never  for  many  a 

year 
Had  such  a  fall  been  known  :  it  seem'd  the 

Lord 

Unlocking  all  His  waters  to  destroy 
The  bad  world  o'er  again.     No   rainbow 

there 

To  promise  sunshine  and  a  speedy  end  ! 
For  'twas  the  Black  Rain,  which  had  once 

or  twice 
Gone  southward,   making  frighted   Elders 

groan, 

And  which  old  wives  in  Bartle  often  call 
The  '  Deil's  rain,'  thinking  Satan  flies  him- 
self, 
Dropping    the    dreadful    blackness    from 

above. 

Silent  we  waited,  watching,  and  the  air 
Was  full  of  a  great  roar— the  sods  beneath 
Seem'd  shaking — and  the  rain-wash  forced 

a  way 
Through  the  thick  turf  above  our  heads, 

and  fell 

Upon  us,  splashing,  as  with  watery  ink, 
Our  hands  and  faces.     But  I  saw  Dan's 

eye 
Had  kindled.     He  was  younger.     For  the 

sounds 
Quicken'd  his  sense  of  life,  brought  up  his 

strength, 

And  minded  him  of  former  fearsome  days 
Upon  the  Ocean  ;  and  his  other  self-- 
The  sickly  self  that  lived  the  life  on  land — 
Forsook  him.      Then  there  was  a  lull,  a 

pause — 

Not  broken  by  the  further  fall  of  rain, 
Nor  by  the  thunder-claps,  but  by  a  sign 
More  terrible  than  all — a  roar,  a  groan, 
A  motion  as  of  waters,  and  a  sound 
Like  the  dread  surging  of  an  angry  Sea. 

And  Dan  threw  up  his  arms,  screaming 

aloud, 
'THE     SCAITH  !     THE     SCMTH  ! '—  and 

groan'd,  and  rush'd  away, — 
I  following  close  behind  him  in  the  mirk. 


THE   SCAITH  O1   BARTLE. 


239 


And  on  he  tore,  until  he  gain'd  a  craig, 
Above  the  glen,  yonder  between  the  hills  ; 
And  cattle  huddled  round  him,  lowing  loud, 
And  the  Scaith  thicken'd,  and  the  murmur 

grew, 
While  we  gazed  down.     The  mists  hung 

round  the  heights, 

The  rain  still  fell,  but  faintly, — and  below, 
Roaring  on  seaward,  snatching  in  its  course 
Boulders  and  trees  and  cattle,  rush'd  the 

Scaith, 

A  blacken'd  yellow  wash  of  waters,  foaming 
Where'er  it  touched  the  feet  of  stone  or 

steep, 

And  dizzily  whirling  round  the  great  tree- 
roots 
To  twist  them  from  their  beds.      White, 

scared,  and  stunn'd, 
Dan  groan'd,  and  sank  upon  his  knees,  and 

sobbed. 

Done  was  the  thunder  ;  but  the  waters  made 
Another  thunder,  and  the  fireflaught  came 
Fainter  and  fainter.     Then  we  heard  from 

far 

A  sound  more  awful — shrieks  of  living  men, 
Children  and  women  ;  while  the  thinning 

clouds 

Parted  to  westward,  brightening  at  the  rims, 
And  rays  of  misty  sunset  slanted  down 
On  Bartle,  and  the  Scaith  had  seized  its 

prey. 

'  Effie  ! '  cried  Dan  ;  and  sped  along  the 

hills, 
And  would  have  rush'd  right  downward  to 

his  death 

Had  I  not  gript  him.     But  we  found  a  way 
O'er  the  hillside,  and  gain'd  the  northern 

height 

Above  the  clachan.    Jack,  until  I  die, 
That  hour  will  haunt  me  !     For  the  village 

lay 
Naip-deep  beneath  the  moaning  rain-dyed 

flood, 
And  bields  sank  shatter'd,  and  the  sunset 

cold 

Gleam'd  upon  Bartle  and  the  sea  beyond  ; 
And  on  the  slopes  on  either  side  there 

gather 'd 
Women  and  men  :  some  screeching  as  they 

saw 
The  Scaith  drink  up  their  houses  and  their 

goods, 


Some  crying  for  the  friends  they  could  not 

see, 
Some  sitting   still,    and   looking  on  their 

bairns, 
As  if  they  had  gone  wild.    Then  Dan  glared 

round, 

Seeking  for  Effie, — but  he  saw  her  not ; 
And  the  damp  sunset  gleaming  on  his  face, 
Grimed  with    the    rain-drops,    show'd    it 

ghastly  pale, 

But  he  was  cool  as  he  had  often  been 
On  gruesome  nights  at  sea.      '  She  is  not 

here  ! ' 
He  whispered  ;    '  yet  she  cannot  but  be 

saved. 
Perchance  she  gathers  with  the  folk  that 

stand 

Waving  their  arms  yonder  across  the  flood : 
Oh !    would  my  eyes  were  young  that   I 

might  see.' 

That  way  /  gazed  ;  but  all  that  I  could  see 
Were  mists  beyond   the   clachan  ;    down 

below, 

The  wildly  washing  waters  ;  here  and  there, 
Women   and  children   screaming  on  the 

roofs, 
While  punts  and  skiffs  were  gliding  here 

and  there, 

Piloting  slowly  through  the  rocks  and  walls, 
To  succour  those  unsaved  ;  at  intervals 
A    leafless  tiee-top  peering    through    the 

water, 
While  frighted  birds  lit  on  its  twigs,   or 

wheel'd  » 

Around    it  crying.      Then,    '  A  boat !    a 

boat  ! ' 

Dan  cried  ;  but  he  was  crying  to  the  air  : 
The  folk  around  him  heard  and  made  a 

stir, — 
But  some  scarce  raised  their  wild  and  watery 

eyes, 
And  some  stopp'd  moaning,  look'd  at  him 

who  cried, 

And  then  again  sat  rocking  to  and  fro, 
Gazing  straight  downward,  and  with  eerie 

groans 
Bewailing  their  own  sorrow. 

Then  the  place 
Blacken'd  in  gloaming — mists  rose  from  the 

flood— 
The  sky  turn'd  black,  with  neither  stars  nor 

moon, 


240 


NORTH   COAST,    AND   OTHER   POEMS. 


And  down  below,  flashing  from  place  to 

place, 
The  lights,  like  corpse-lights  warning  folk 

of  death, 

Flitted  and  faded,  showing  where  the  boats 
Still  moved  about  upon  their  weary  work 
And  those  who  grieved  were    stiller    all 

around ; 
The  solemn  moaning  of  the  Scaith  was 

hush'd, 
Your  ears  could  hear  the  sobbing  of  the 

Sea; 

And  only  now  and  then  a  hollow  splash 
Spake  plain  of  walls  that  yielded  and  slipt 

down 

Into  the  waters.     Then  a  light  came  near, 
And  to  the  water's  edge  a  fishing-boat 
Brought  a  dead  fisher,  and  a  little  child 
Who  cried  for  '  mither ' ;  and  as  he  who 

row'd 
Handed  the  bairn  to  hungry  outstretch'd 

arms, 
And  landed  with  the  corpse,  old  Dan  leapt 

in, 
Snatching  the  lanthorn  from  the  fisher's 

hand, 
Push'd  off  ere  I  could  follow,  and  had 

flown 
Into  the  darkness  .  .  . 

Jack, — I  never  again 

Saw  poor  old  Dan,  alive  !    Yet  it  was  well 
His  woes  were  ended  ;  for  that  very  day, 
Ere  the  Scaith  came,  Efne  had  crept  from 

home, — 
Ay,  with  a  man  ; — and  ere  I  knew  the 

truth 

Why,  she  was  out  upon  the  ocean  waves, 
And  fleeing  with  the  loon  to  Canada. 
Ill  winds  pursue  her  !    God  will  find  her 

out! 

He  sent  His  water  down  to  free  old  Dan, 
And  He  is  after  her  across  the  Deep  ! 

Next  dawning,  when  the  Scaith  was  part 

subdued, 
And  sinking  slowly  through  the  seams  of 

earth, 
Pouring  in  bright  brown  burns  to  join  the 

sea, 
Fouling  with  mud  the  line  of   breaking 

foam, 
Twas  a  most  piteous  sight  to  see  the  folk, 


With  spade  and  mattock,  digging  at  the 

graves 
Of  their  own  dwellings  ;  taking  what  was 

saved 

With  bitter  thankless  faces.     Fallen  walls, 
And  trees   uprooted  from   the  waste  hill- 
sides, 
And  boulders  swept  from  far  along  the 

glen, 

And  household  lumber  gather' d  everywhere, 
Mingled  in  ruin  ;  and  the  frailer  bields 
Were  swept  away  for  ever.     As  for  me, 
I  had  my  work  in  hand.     I  took  a  spade 
And  waded  through  the  thick  and  muddy 

pools, 
('Twas  still  waist-deep,)  right  onward  to  the 

place 
Where  Dan  had  dwelt.      For  something 

drew  me  there, 
Foremost  of  all.     The  bield  was  standing 

still, 
Though    doors    and  windows    had    been 

beaten  in ; 

And  as  I  splash' d  along  the  passage,  bits 
Of  household  lumber  tripped  me  ;  but  I 

went 
Right  on  to  Erne's  room,  and  there  the 

flood 
Was  lying  black  and  cold ; — and  there  lay 

Dan. 

Washing  upon  the  water,  with  his  face 
Drawn  downward,  his  hands  clench'd,  his 

long  gray  hair 
Rippling  around  him— stiff,  and  cold,  and 

dead 

And  when  I  turn'd  his  face  up  to  the  light, 
I  did  not  scunner  much — it  look'd  so  strong, 
So  seaman-like,  and  fine.     I  saw  it  all ! 
How  he  had  drifted  thither  in  the  dark, 
And  found  the  water  low  around  the  bield, 
But  slowly  rising  ;  how  he  fought  his  way, 
Search'd  but  and  ben,  and  last,  in  Effie's 

room, 
Stood  ghastly  in  the  lanthorn  light,  and 

saw 
The  place  was  empty  ;  how,  while  there  he 

stood, 

Staring  in  horror,  with  an  eldritch  cry 
The    wild    SCAITH    struck    the    crashing 

window  panes, 
Dash'd  down  the  lanthorn,  gript  him  in  the 

dark, 


THE  SCAITH  0'   BARTLE—THE   GLAMOUR. 


241 


Roar'd  in  his  ear=,  and  while  it  struck  him 

down, 

Out  of  his  nostrils  suck'd  the  breath  of  life. 
Jack,  Jack,  we  know  there  comes  to  men 

who  drown 

A  sudden  flashing  picture  of  the  past, — 
And  ah  !  how  pitiful,  how  pitiful, 
In  that  last  minute  did  the  picture  come : 
A  vision  of  the  sounding  Sea  afar, 
A  ghaistly  ship  upon  it, — Efne's  face, 
Coming  and  going  like  to  floating  foam, — 
The  picture  of  the  kirk  upon  the  hill, 
And    sunshine    smiling    on    the    wedding 

guests, — 
The  shadowy  cliffs  where  he  had  paced  in 

pain, 
The  waves,  the  sun,  the  moon,  the  thought 

of  me, 
All  thicken'd  on  him  as  he  scream'd  her 

name, 
And  struggled  with  the  cruel  Scaith,  and 

died! 

Ay !  GOD  Almighty's  water,  e'en  ashore, 
More  merciful  than  women,  found  him  out ; 
And  here  he  lies,  but  should  have  lain  else- 
where. 
Had  Scots  law,  and  the  blethering  women's 

tongues, 
Not  hinder'd  me, — I  would  have  ta'en  a 

boat, 

And  sewn  his  body  in  a  sheet,  with  stones 
Fasten'd    beneath    his  soles  to  sink  him 

down, 
And  row'd  out  yonder,  westward,  where  the 

sun 
Dips  red  beneath  the  straight  blue  water 

line, 
Then  said  a  prayer,   and  softly  sent  him 

down 
Where  he  could  sleep  in  peace,  and  hear 

for  ever 
The  washing  of  the   waters   through   the 

depths  : 
With  flag-flowers  o'er  his  head,  great  weeds 

all  round, 
And  white  salt  foam-bells  hanging  in  his 

ears, 

His  would  have  been  a  sailor's  sleep  indeed  ! 
But  as  it  is,  he  slumbers  here  on  land, 
In  shade  of  Bartle  Kirk,   'mong  country 

loons 
And  fishermen  that  shrink  at  open  Sea. 


THE   GLAMOUR. 

The  hills  close  round  her—  everywhere 
Strange  voices  deepen  in  the  air  ; 
The  pain,  the  hope,  the  agony, 
Flash  to  a  sense  of  mystery  ; 
The  shapes  of  earth  and  air  and  skif  s 
Catch  glamour  in  her  weary  eyes  ; 
Worn  with  the  pain,  worn  with  the  pain, 
She  would  lie  down,  and  sleep  again  ! 

0  LORD  my  GOD,  draw  not  Thy  hand  away  — 
The  sleep-stoure  fills  my  eyes  —  I  feel  my 

grave— 

And  I  would  reach  a  painless  end,  like  those 
Thy  glamour  ne'er  hath  troubled.     I  have 

been 

O'er  long  a  shadow  on  the  paths  ot  men, 
O'er  long  a  screeching  bird  in  happy  bields, 
O'er  long  a  haunted   wanderer   day  and 

night. 
Lord,  let  me  die  !   Lord,  let  me  die  !    Lord 

GOD, 

Pity  and  spare  me  !   Draw  Thy  hand  away  ! 
Thy  breath  is  on  me  in  the  mirk,  and  ah  ! 

1  sicken  sore,  while  yonder  through  the  pane 
Corpse-candles,   blowing  blue  against  the 

wind, 
Flit  slowly  to  the  kirkyard,  down  Glen-Earn. 

What  had  I  done,  that  Thou  shouldst 

pick  me  out, 

To  breathe  Thy  glamour  on  ?     I  was  a  lass 
Happy  and  heartsome,   till  that  dreesome 

day 
I  walk'd  from  kirk  by  moonlight  down  the 

glen, 

And  saw  Maccaskill  of  Craig-Dhonil  pass, 
Sewn  to  the  middle  in  his  winding-sheet, 
And  waving  hairy  arms  until  I  swoon'd  ;  — 
And  ere  a  year  was  run  Maccaskill  died  ; 
And  then  I  kenn'd  I  had  the  bitter  gift 
My  father  and  my  father's  father  had. 
Yet  I  was  young,  and  felt  a  kind  o"  pride, 
To  see  so  far  into  Thy  mysteries,  — 
To  ken  when  man  or  wife  was  doom'd  to 

die; 

To  see  the  young  life  in  a  lassie's  wame, 
Although  her  snood  was  whole  ;  to  prophesy 
Tempests  and  human  losses.     Many  a  man 
Then  turn'd  away  ;   but  Kenneth  married 


R 


242 


NORTH   COAST,    AND   OTHER   POEMS. 


Kenneth    Macdonald,  sheep-herd  on    the 

hills, 

A  holy  man  and  kind  ;  and  for  a  time 
The  glamour  came  no  more,  and  I  was  gay, 
Feeling  the  young  bairn  underneath  my 

breast 

Breathe  softly  with  the  rocking  of  my  heart. 
But  in  the  winter  gloaming,  when  the  drift 
Was  thick  around  the  door,  and  winds  were 

blowing, 

And  I  was  lying  on  the  jizzen-bed, 
And  Jean  the  howdie  wash'd  my  paps  with 

salt, 

I  saw  a  strange  thing  lying  on  her  knee — 
A  span-long  body  in  a  blood-stain' dsowe — 
And  scream'd  and  cried,  'Jean,  Jean,  the 

bairn  will  die  ! ' 

And  so  it  was.  For  while  old  mother  slipt 
Out  to  the  kitchen  lowe,  where  Kenneth  sat, 
To  drop  a  cinder  through  the  wee  white 

sark, 

The  bairn  came  dead  into  the  chilly  mirk  ; 
And  in  the  snowy  dawning  I  beheld 
The  span-long  body  of  my  sweet  first-born, 
Wrapt  in  its  sowe,  upon  the  howdie's  knee. 

But  Angus  lived — my  white-faced  sickly 

bairn, 

The  last  I  bore  ;  for,  ere  I  rose  from  bed, 
I  heard,  one  gloaming  dark,  from  but  the 

house, 

A  sound  of  sawing,  hewing  with  an  adze, 
Mix'd  with  a  sound  of  weeping,  clapping 

hands ; 

And  all  the  bield  was  empty, — and  I  knew 
A  shell  was  being  made  for  some  one  near  ; 
And  ah  !  before  the  moon  was  full  again 
Just  as  the  season  of  the  lambing  came, 
My  bonnie  man  was  sheeted  in  the  house, 
And  stiff,  and  cold  ;  and  I  was  left  alone, 
Shadow' d  and  sad,  with  hot  tears  dropping 

down 
On  Angus,  pulling  feebly  at  my  breast. 

I  never  bedded  with  another  man, 
Never  bare  wean  again  ;  but  I  could  earn 
Both  food  and  drink,  and  all  my  pride  and 

joy 
Was  Angus.     Lord,  he  was  the  bonniest 

bairn 
The  sweetest,   gentlest,   ever  wrought    in 

flesh, 
To  gladden  mother's  eyes.     The  very  day 


That  he  was  born,  I  call'd  the  minister, 
Who  gave  him  baptism,  that  the  glamour 

ne'er, 

Might  come  on  him  or  his  ;  and  ah  !  he  grew, 
Pale  like  a  lily — for  this  solemn  world 
O'er  gentle ;  and  the  glamour  brought  no 

fear 
To  mirk  our  dwelling.     Nay,  for  many  a 

year, 

The  eerie  light  seem'd  gone  away  from  me, 
For  never  ghaist  or  burial  cross'd  my  path, 
Corpse-light  or  wraith.  Then  Angus  on 

the  hills 
Grew  sheep-herd,  like  his  father,  though  he 

lack'd 

His  father's  fearless  heart ;  and,  as  he  grew, 
Turn'd  weaker,  whiter — bonnie  still,  but 

thin 
And  bloodless  ;  and  he  lack'd  the  heart  to 

face 

Darkness  and  danger  :  ringing  of  a  bell 
At  midnight,  sudden  footsteps  in  the  dark, 
A  hand  placed  on  his  shoulder  suddenly, 
Would  strike  him  down  into  a  swooning  fit, 
Dreesome  to  see  ;  and  when  his  eighteenth 

year 

Was  o'er,  he  sometimes  sicken' d  at  my  face, 
And  shiver'd  though  he  knew  me.  All  at 

once 

The  glamour  came  across  my  Soul  again. 
One  night,  while  we  were  seated  in  the  bield, 
I  heard  a  wailing  come  from  but  the  house, 
And  horror  gript  me.     '  Mother  ! '  Angus 

cried, 

Glow'ring  full  fear'd  into  my  burning  eyes, 
What  ails  thee  ? '      '  Wheesht ! '  I  whis- 

per'd  ;  '  hear  ye  nought  ? ' 
1  Nought !    Angus  said.     And  then  I  heard 

a  sound 

Of  groans,  and  clapping  hands  ;  and  sud- 
denly 

I  saw  my  Angus  shrink  until  he  grew 
As  small  as  any  babe  new-born,  and  turn, 
Swift  as  the  fireflaught,  to  himself  again  ? — 
And  while  I  scream'd,  and  fell  upon  his 

neck, 
Weeping,  and  kissing  him,  and  moaning 

low, 
He  sicken' d  at  my  face,  and  swoon' d  away. 

For,  though  I  hid  the  trouble  from  my 

bairn, 
Long  had  he  known  his  mother  was  a  seer, 


THE   GLAMOUR. 


243 


Whose  eyes  were  troubled  by  mysterious 

things  ; 

And  every  shade  he  saw  upon  my  face 
Distraught  him,  lest  I  saw  before  his  path 
Mishap  or  death.     My  white-faced,  fearfu 

bairn  ! 
My  drooping  Angus,  with  his   soft,  wide 

eyes, 
And  fluttering  mouth !     Alone  upon   the 

hills, 
He  trembled— fear'd  the  lightning  and  the 

storm — 

Tholed  not  to  lie  within  the  dark  alone — 
And  would  have  wither'd  in  his  bairndom's 

time, 
Had  I  not  cheer'd  him  with  a  smiling  face, 

Lord,  Thou  wert  sore  upon  me  !     I  was 

lone, 
And    Angus    was    my    pleasure.       I    was 

haunted, 

And  Angus  was  my  help.  Yet,  once  again, 
Thy  glamour  struck  me,  and  I  knew,  I 

knew, 
Angus  must  die.     Hard,  hard,   both  day 

and  night, 

I  tried  to  cheat  myself  and  hope,  and  smiled 
On  Angus,  till  his  heart  grew  still  once  more. 
But  it  was  all  in  vain.  Thrice  Angus 

shrunk, 

Three  several  gloamings,  seated  in  his  chair. 
And  I  kept  down  my  fear,  and  did  not 

scream ; 

And  oft  I  heard  the  wailing  in  the  house, 
And  sounding  of  the  kirk-bells  down  Glen- 
Earn 
At  midnight.     Then  I  sicken'd  and  grew 

thin, 
And  hunger'd  o'er  my  bairn,  and  pray'd, 

and  pray'd, — 

And  what  to  me  was  light  of  sun  or  star 
If  Angus  went  away  ? 

...  It  was  a  night 
Quiet  and  cold.     The  moon  and  stars  were 

out, 
The    moon-dew    glittering    on    the    hills. 

Alone, 

I  sat,  awaiting  Angus.     It  grew  late, 
And  Angus  came  not ;  and  the  low  winds 

blew, 
And  the  clock  tick'd,  and  ah  !  my  heart  was 

dark. 


Then,  last,  I  took  my  cloak,  and  wander'd 

forth, 

To  see  if  he  was  coming  down  the  Glen, 
And  took  the  cold  wet  pathway  in  the  moon 
Until  I  reach'd  the  foot  of  Cawmock  Craig, 
And  saw  the  straight  rock  rise  into  the  lift, 
Its  side  all  dark,  but  on  its  top  the  Moon 
Shining  full  bright  and  chilly.     As  I  stood. 
I  heard  a  shout,  and  saw,  far,  far  above. 
A  figure  dark  between  me  and  the  lift, 
Threading  the  narrow  paths  around  the 

Craig 
Whence  many  a  man  hath  fallen  and  been 

slain  ; 
And  even  then— Lord,  Lord ! — Thy  glamour 

dropt 

Upon  me,  and  I  saw  before  my  face 
The  wraith  of  Angus  wrapt  in  bloody  sowe 
Gliding  before  me  in  the  ghaistly  light. 
Shrill  as  an  owl,  I  screech'd  ! — and  up  above 
My  Angus  heard,  and  sicken'd,  and  swam 

round, 
And,  swooning  on  the  sharp  edge  of  the 

Craig, 
Dash'd  downward  to  his  death ! — 

.  .  .  O  bonnie,  bonnie 
Look'd  Angus,  lying  in  his  sowe  asleep, 
Quiet  like  moonlight  on  his  face,  his  hair 
Kaim'd  back  and  shining  round  his  cold 

white  ears. 

And  yonder  in  the  cold  kirkyard  he  lies  ; 
And,  Lord,  I  want  to  slumber  at  his  side, 
And  cheer  him  in   the    darkness  of   the 

grave,— 

For  he  was  ever  fearful,  weak,  and  pale — 
A  young  man  with  a  white  bairn's  timorous 

soul. 
And,  Lord,  I  think  that  Thou  at  las*  art 

kind, 
For  oft  the  white  wraitn,  glimmering  at  my 

side, 
Hath  waved  its  arms,   and  moan'd,  and 

look'd  like  me  : 
And  I  have  watched  it  ever,  not  afraid, 
But  sad  and  smiling,  and  what  dress    I 

wore 
The  wraith  hath  worn  ;  and  when  I  turn'd 

my  gown 
And  let  the  grey  hairs  hang  all  down  my 

neck, 
The  wraith  too,  turn'd  its  gown,  and  loos'd 

its  hair  ; 


244 


NORTH  COAST,    AND   OTHER   POEMS. 


And  yonder,  yonder,  yonder  through  the 
pane 

The  blue  corpse-candles,  blowing  in  the 
wind, 

Flit  slowly  to  the  kirkyard,  down  Glen- 
Earn. 


SIGURD   OF  SAXONY. 
(MEDIAEVAL.) 

THE  sedgy  shores  of  this  enchanted  lake 
Are  dark  with  shadows  of  the  swans  which 
make 

Their  nests  along  its  marge  ; 
And  on  the  hither  side,  where  silver  waves 
Curl  with  low  music  into  hollow  caves, 

Waiting  for  that  bright  barge 
Which  beareth  sleepers  to  the  silent  land, 
I,  Sigurd,  in  my  ghostly  sorrow,  stand. 

I  stand  alone  beneath  heaven's  silent  arch, 
Shaded  both  night  and  day  by  clouds  that 

march 

And  countermarch  above ; 
A  sombre  suit  of  perfect  mail  I  wear, 
A  gloomy  plume,  that  troubles  the  thin  air 

To  murmurs  if  I  move  ; 
My  sword  is  red  and  broken  ;   and  my 

shield 
Bears  a  gold  anchor  on  a  sable  field. 

This  is  a  place  where  mortals  find  not 

speech  ; 
Save  the  small  murmurous  waves  that  crawl 

the  beach, 

All  is  as  still  as  death  : 
I  hear  my  heart  against  my  ribs  of  stone, 
Like  to  a  wild  bird  in  the  net,  make  moan  ; 

My  slow  and  frozen  breath 
Curls  like  a  vapour  o'er  the  silent  spot ; 
My  shadow  seeks  my  feet,  and  moveth  not. 

Nought  can  redeem  her.    Wherefore  I  seek 

grace 
To  join  her  in  her  distant  dwelling-place 

Of  pastoral  repose ; 
And  I  would  make  this  heart  that  aches  and 

grieves 

As  white  and  perfect  as  a  lily's  leaves 
And  fragrant  as  a  rose, 


That  with  a  stainless  spirit  I  may  take 
The  solemn  barge  across  the  enchanted 
lake. 

For,  having  worn  her  stainless  badge  in 

fight, 
Thrice  conquering  in  her  name,  by  day  and 

night 

I  rode  with  vizor  down, 
Meeting  and  slaying  honourable  foes, 
Wounded  in  flesh,  giving  and  taking  blows 

To  compass  her  renown. 
Thus,  warring  a  sweet  war  without  reprieve, 
I,  Sigurd,  wore  her  badge  upon  my  sleeve. 

Arme"d  from  head  to  heel,  with  spear  in 

hand, 
I  cried  her  praises  through  the  wondering 

land, 

And  few  her  praise  refused  ; 
Then  flushing  with  my  victory  complete, 
I  hastened  back  and  knelt  me  at  her  feet, 

Battered,  and  maimed,  and  bruised  ; 
And  then  I  wooed  her  in  a  secret  place, 
With  light  upon  me  from  her  shining  face. 

She    bathed  my   bloody  brow,   with    red 

wounds  striped, 
And  with  a  kerchief  white  as  snow  she 

wiped 

The  foam  from  off  my  mouth  ; 
She  set  my  unhelmed  head  upon  her  knee, 
And  wound  white  arms  about  me  tenderly, 

And  slaked  the  thirsty  drouth 
That  ebbed  in  sluggish  fire  through  blood 

and  brain, 
From  a  full  cup  of  cool  white  porcelain. 

Wherefore  my  soul  again  was  strong.     I 

caught 
The    voiceless    music    of   her    ibrm    and 

thought. 

I  knelt  upon  my  knee, 
Saying,    '  I  love  thee  more   than  life  or 

fame ; 
I  love  thee  only  less  than  my  good  name, 

Which  is  a  part  of  thee  ; 
And  I  adore  thy  beauty  undefiled  ! ' 
Whereat  she  looked  into  mine  eyes  and 

smiled. 

I  wooed  her  night  and  day  with  virtuous 

deeds, 
And  that  humility  which  intercedes 


SIGURD   OF  SAXONY. 


245 


With  ladies  for  true  men. 
I  took  her  lily  of  a  hand  in  mine, 
Drinking  her  breath,  as  soft  as  eglantine, 

And  wooing  well ;  and  then 
She  toyed  with  my  great  beard,  and  gave 

consent : 
So  down  the  flowery  path  of  love  we  went. 

Twined  closely,  down  the  soft  descent  of 

love 
We  wandered  on,  with  golden  stars  above, 

And  many  flowers  below, 
Until  we  came  to  this  dark  lake  or  sea, 
Which  openeth  upon  eternity, 

And  could  no  farther  go  ; 
For  beyond  life  and  death,  and  these  dark 

skies, 
The  place  of  sleep,  the  Silent  Valley,  lies. 

Here  on  the  beach  we  stood,  and  hand  in 

hand 
Waited  to  wander  to  that  silent  land, 

And  all  the  shore  was  dark  ; 
Saying,  '  We  yearn  to  see  the  Happy  Vale, 
And  hand  in  hand  together  we  will  sail 

In  the  enchanted  barque.' 
Too  late  to   turn  :  one  passage  we  must 

take 
Across  the  gleaming  silence  of  the  lake. 

She  said,  '  The  waters  make  such  threaten- 
ing moan, 
Neither  can  pass  across  their  waste  alone  ; 

We  cannot,  cannot  part ; 
We  will  together  cross  these  waves  of  death. ' 
But  the  dark  waves  grew  darker,  and  the 
breath 

Came  colder  from  the  heart ; 
And  by  each  face  a  quiet  cloud  was  worn, 
Small  as  the  shadow  of  a  lamb  new  born. 

Then  in  the  distant  waves  we  could  behold 
A  radiance  like  the  blowing  autumn  gold 

Of  woodland  forests  deep  ; 
And    my  sweet    lady    trembled,   growing 

white 
As  foam  of  ocean  on  a  summer  night, 

When  the  wild  surges  leap  ; 
And  falling  very  cold  upon  my  breast, 
She  faltered,  '  I  am  weary, — let  me  rest.' 

I  laid  her  down  upon  a  flowery  bed, 
And  put  soft  mosses  underneath  her  head, 


And  kissed  her,  and  she  slept ; 
And  the  air  brightened  round  her,  as  the 

far 
Blue  ether  burns  like  silver  round  a  star. 

And  round  her  slumber  crept 
A  trouble  of  the  air,  and  silver  clear 
The  ghostly  light  upon  the  lake  grew  near. 

Yea,  nearer,  nearer  grew  the  light,   and 

soon, 
Shaped  like  the  sickle  of  the  early  moon, 

The  barge  drew  shoreward  slow — 
A  vapour  and  a  radiance  all  around, 
A  gleaming  of  fair  faces,  and  a  sound 

Of  flutes  and  lute-strings  low. 
And  round  my  lady  crept  a  shadowy  crowd, 
Fading  and  brightening    like    a    moonlit 
cloud. 

They  clustered  with  a  ghostly  light  around 
My  lady  dear,   and  raised  her  from  the 

ground, 

And  bare  her  to  the  barque  : 
Whereon  I  would  have  followed,  but  a 

hand 
Held  me  like  iron  to  the  hated  land. 

Then  all  again  was  dark  ; 
And  from  the  breathing  darkness  came  a 

hum 
Of  voices  sweet,    '  Thy  time  has  not  yet 

come.' 

And  then  I  shrieked  in  utter  agony  ; 
While  fading  far  away  upon  the  sea, 

I  saw  the  light  again  ; 
And  with  a  cry  into  the  waves  I  sprung, 
And  sought  to  follow,  but  the  waters  clung 

About  me  like  a  chain  ; 
And  thrice  I  fought  amid  their  rage  and 

roar, 
And  thrice  they  hurled  me  bleeding  on  the 

shore. 

Long  have  I  waited  here,  alone,  alone, 
Hearing  the  melancholy  waves  make  moan 

Upon  the  pebbly  beach  : 
With  eyes  upon  the  pitiless  stars  above 
Here  have  I  waited  in  my  homeless  love, 

Pale,  patient,  deaf  to  speech, 
With  the  salt  rheum  upon  me,  pale  and 

bent, 
And  breathless  as  a  marble  monument. 


246 


NORTH  COAST,    AND   OTHER   POEMS. 


This  lonely  watching  would  invite  despair 
Did  I  not  oft  catch  glimpses  of  my  fair 

Lady,  so  sadly  lost, 

Making,  with  radiance  round  her  like  a  star, 
A  luminous  pathway  on  the  hill  afar, 

Then  fading  like  a  ghost ; 
What  time  I  shout  aloud,  and  at  the  shout 
Pause,   shuddering  at  the    echoes    round 
about. 

Twice  has  the  barge  returned  :  once  for  a 
bent 

Old  servitor,  who,  down  the  soft  descent 
That  leads  to  this  dim  land, 

Had  wandered    from  the  towns  that  lie 
behind, 

And,  groping  in  the  cold,  had  fall'n  stone- 
blind 

Upon  the  shifting  sand  ; 

Once  for  a  little  gold-haired  child  astray, 

Who,  wandering  hither,   fell  to  sleep  at 
play. 

Twice  has  the  mystic  barge  returned,  and 

twice 
Have  I  been  frozen  to  the  earth  in  ice, 

Helpless  to  move  or  speak  ; 
Thrice  have  I  fought  with  the  relentless 

roar 

Of  water,  and  been  flung  upon  the  shore 
Battered,  and  maimed,  and  weak  ; 
But  now  I  wait  with  quiet  heart  and  brain, 
Grown  patient  with  unutterable  pain. 

And  I  will  wait.     To  slay  myself  were  sin, 
And  I,  self-slaughter'd,  could  not  hope  to 

win 

My  solitary  boon  ; 
But  if  the  barge  should  come  again,  and 

leave 
Me  still  in  lonely  watch  without  reprieve, 

Under  the  silver  moon 
I  will  lie  down  upon  my  back  and  rest, 
With  maiMd  hands  crossed  praying  on  my 

breast ; 

And  fall  to  slumber  on  a  bed  of  weeds, 
A  knight  well  worn  in  honourable  deeds, 

Yet  lost  to  life,  and  old  ; 
And  haply  I  may  dream  before  I  wake 
That  I  am  floating  o'er  the  pathless  lake 

In  that  bright  barge  of  gold  ; 
And,  waking,  I  may  see  with  sweet  surprise 
Light  shining  on  me  from  my  lady's  eyes. 


A   POEM  TO  DAVID* 


I  WOULD  not  be  lying  yonder, 
Where  thou,  beloved,  art  lying, 

Though  the  nations  should  crown  me  living, 
And  murmur  my  praises  dying. 

Better  this  fierce  pulsation, 

Better  this  aching  brain, 
Than  dream,  and  hear  faintly  above  me 

The  cry  of  the  wind  and  the  rain ; 

Than  lie  in  the  kirkyard  lonely, 
With  fingers  and  toes  upcurled, 

And  be  conscious  of  never  a  motion 

Save  the  slow  rolling  round  of  the  world. 

I  would  not  be  lying  yonder, 

Though    the    seeds    I  had    sown  were 

springing ! 
I  would  not  be  sleeping  yonder, 

And  be  done  with  striving  and  singing ! 

For  the  eyes  are  blinded  with  mildew, 
The  lips  are  clammy  with  clay, 

And  worms  in  the  ears  are  crawling, — 
But  the  brain  is  the  brain  for  aye ! 

The  brain  is  warm  and  glowing, 

Whatever  the  body  be  ; 
It  stirs  like  a  thing  that  breatheth, 

And  dreams  of  the  Past  and  To  be  ! 

Ay !  down  in  the  deep  damp  darkness 
The  brains  of  the  dead  are  hovelled  ! 

They  gleam  on  each  other  with  radiance, 
Transcending  the  eye  that  is  shrivelled  ! 

Each  like  a  faint  lamp  lighteth 

The  skull  wherein  it  dwelleth  ! 
Each  like  a  lamp  turneth  brighter 

Whenever  the  kirk-bell  knelleth  I 

I  would  not  be  lying  yonder 
Afar  from  the  music  of  things, 

Not  were  my  green  grave  watered 
By  the  tears  of  queens  and  kings. 

*  David  Gray,  Author  of  The  Luggie,  and 
other  Poems. 


A  POEM  TO  DAVID— HAKON. 


247 


If  the  brain  like  a  thing  that  breatheth 

Is  full  of  the  Past  and  To  be, 
The  silence  is  far  more  awful 

Than  the  shriek  and  the  agony  ; 

And  the  hope  that  sweetened  living 
Is  gone  with  the  light  of  the  sun, 

And  the  struggle  seems  wholly  over, 
And  nothing  at  all  seems  done  ; 

And  the  dreams  are  heavy  with  losses, 
And  sins,  and  errors,  and  wrongs, 

And  you  cannot  hear  in  the  darkness 
If  the  people  are  singing  your  songs  ! 

There's  only  the  slow  still  rolling 
Of  the  dark  world  round  and  round, 

Making  the  dream  more  wondrous, 
Though  it  render  the  sleep  more  sound. 

'T  is  cold,  cold,  cold  and  weary, 

Cold  in  a  weary  place  : 
The  sense  of  the  sin  is  present 

Like  the  gleam  of  a  demon's  face  ! 

What  matter  the  tingling  fingers 
That  touch  the  song  above  you  ? 

What  matter  the  young  man's  weeping, 
And  longing  to  know  you  and  love  you  ? 

Nought  has  been  said  and  uttered, 
Nought  has  been  seen  or  known, — 

Detraction,  the  adder  above  you, 
Is  sunned  on  the  cold  grave-stone. 


Yet 't  is  dark  here,  dark, 
And  the  voices  call  from  below  1 

'T  is  so  dark,  dark,  dark, 
That  it  seems  not  hard  to  go  ! 

'T  is  dark,  dark,  dark, 

And  we  close  our  eyes  and  are  weary ! 
'T  is  dark,  dark,  dark, 

And  the  waiting  seems  bitter  and  dreary 

And  yonder  the  sun  is  shining, 

And  the  green,  long  grass  hath  grown, 
And  the  cool  kirk-shade  looks  pleasant, 

And  you  lie  so  alone,  so  alone  ! 

The  world  is  heartless  and  hollow, 
And  singing  is  sad  without  you, 

And  I  think  I  could  bear  the  dreaming 
Were  mine  arms  around  about  you  ; 


Were  thy  lips  to  mine,  belove'd, 
And  thine  arms  around  me  too, 

I  think  I  could  lie  in  silence, 
And  dream  as  we  used  to  do  ! 

The  flesh  and  the  bones  might  wither, 
The  blood  be  dried  like  dew, 

The  heart  might  crumble  to  ashes, 
Till  dust  was  dust  anew  ; 

And  the  world  with  its  slow  still  motion 
Might  roll  on  its  heavenward  way, — 

And  our  brains  upon  one  another 
Would  gleam  till  the  Judgment  Day ! 


HAKON. 

HAKON  of  Thule,  ere  he  died, 
Summoned  a  Priest  to  his  bed-side. 

'  Ho,  Priest ! '  with  blackening  brow  quoth 

he, 
'  What  comfort  canst  thou  cast  to  me?' 

The  young  Priest,  with  a  timorous  mouth, 
Told  of  the  new  gods  of  the  South,— 

Of  Mary  Mother  and  her  Child, 
And  holy  Saints  with  features  mild  ; 

Of  those  who  hate  and  those  who  love, 
Of  Hell  beneath  and  Heaven  above. 

Then  Hakon  laughed  full  loud  and  shrill — 
'  Serve  thy  puny  gods  who  will ! ' 

Then,  roaring  to  his  henchman  red, 

'Slit  me  the  throat  o*  the  Priest,'  he  said; 

'  His  red  heart's  blood  shall  flow  before, 
As  steaming  sacrifice  to  Thor ! 

'  Bring  me  my  mighty  drinking-cup  : 
With  fiery  wine  now  fill  it  up  ! ' 

Then,  though  so  faint  his  life's  blood  ran, 
'  Let  me  die  standing,  like  a  man  ! ' 

He  swore,  and  staggered  to  his  legs, 
And  drained  the  goblet  to  the  dregs. 

'  Skaal  be  to  the  gods  ! '  he  said — 

His  great  heart  burst,  and  he  was  dead  f 


248 


CORUISKEN  SONNETS. 


Sonnets 


WRITTEN   BY   LOCH 


CORUISK,* 
(1870.) 


ISLE   OF  SKYE. 


Late  in  the  gloaming  of  the  year, 
I  haunt  the  melancholy  Mere  ; 
A  Phantom  I,  where  phantoms  brood, 
In  that  soul-searching  solitude. 
Hiding  my  forehead  in  the  dim 
Hem  of  His  robe,  I  question  Him  ! 


CORUISKEN  SONNETS. 


LORD,  is  IT  THOU? 

LORD,  is  it  Thou?    GOD,  do  I  touch  in- 
deed 

Thy  raiment  hem,  that  rolls  like  vapour 
dark? 

0  homeless  Spirit,  that  fleest  us  in  our 

need, 
Pause  !   answer  !  while  I  kneel,  remain 

and  mark.  .  . 
Father  I  .  .  .  Ere  back  they  bear  me, 

cold  and  stark, 
Across    Thy    darken'd    threshold, — ere    I 

plead 

For  love  no  longer,  pity  me,  and  hark  ! 
Surviving  the  long  tale  of  craft  and  creed, 
The  dumb  Hills  gather  round  me,  gaunt 

and  gray, — 
The    Waters    utter    their    monotonous 

moan, — 

The  immemorial  Heavens,  with  no  groan, 

Bend  dim  eyes  down,  as  on  their  natal  day  : 

Cold  are  all  these  as  snow,  and  still  as 

stone  ; 

But  /  have  found  a  voice — to  plead,   to 
pray. 

H. 

WE  ARE  FATHERLESS. 

1  FOUND  Thee  not  by  the  starved  widow's 

bed, 

Nor  in   the  sick-rooms  where  my  dear 
ones  died  ; 

*  For  a  detailed  description  of  Loch  Coruisk, 
see  the  writer's  Prose  Works,  Volume  v. 


In  Cities  vast  I  hearken'd  for  Thy  tread, 
And  heard  a  thousand  call  Thee,  wretched- 
eyed, 
Worn  out,  and  bitter.     But  the  Heavens 

denied 
Their   melancholy    Maker.      From    the 

Dead! 
Assurance  came,   nor  answer.     Then  I 

fled 
Into  these  wastes,  and  raised  my  hands, 

and  cried  : 

'  The  seasons  pass — the  sky  is  as  a  pall — 
Thin  wasted  hands  on  withering  hearts 

we  press — 
There  is  no   God — in  vain  we  plead  and 

call, 
In  vain  with  weary  eyes  we  search  and 

guess- 
Like  children  in  an  empty  house  sit  all, 
Cast-away  children,  lorn  and  fatherless.' 

in. 
WE  ARE  CHILDREN. 

CHILDREN   indeed  are  we — children  that 

wait 
Within  a  wondrous  Dwelling,  while  on 

high 
Stretch  the  sad  vapours  and  the  voiceless 

sky  ; 

The  House  is  fair,  yet  all  is  desolate 
Because  our  Father  comes  not  ;  clouds  of 

fate 

Sadden  above  us — shivering  we  espy 
The  passing  rain,  the  cloud  before  the  gate, 

And  cry  to  one  another,  '  He  is  nigh  ! ' 
At  early  morning,  with  a  shining  Face, 
He  left  us  innocent  and  lily-crown'd  ; 


CORUISKEN  SONNETS. 


249 


And  now  'tis  late — night  cometh  on  apace — 
We  hold  each  other's  hands  and  look 

around, 
Frighted  at  our  own  shades  !    Heaven  send 

us  grace ! 

When   He  returns,  all  will  be  sleeping 
sound. 


WHEN  WE  ARE  ALL  ASLEEP. 

WHEN  He  returns,  and  finds  the  World  so 

drear — 
All  sleeping, — young  and  old,  unfair  and 

fair, 
Will  He  stoop  down  and  whisper  in  each 

ear, 

1  Awaken  ! '  or  for  pity's  sake  forbear, — 
Saying,  '  How  shall  I  meet  their  frozen 

stare 

Of  wonder,  and  their  eyes  so  full  of  fear  ? 
How  shall  I  comfort  them  in  their  de- 
spair, 
If  they  cry  out,   "Too  late!  let  us  sleep 

here"?' 
Perchance  He  will  not  wake  us  up,   but 

when 

He  sees  us  look  so  happy  in  our  rest, 
Will  murmur,    '  Poor    dead   women    and 

dead  men  ! 
Dire  was  their  doom,  and  weary  was  their 

quest. 

Wherefore  awake  them  unto  life  again  ? 
Let  them  sleep  on  untroubled— it  is  best.' 


V. 
BUT  THE  HILLS  WILL  BEAR  WITNESS. 

BUT  ye, — ye  Hills  that  gather  round  this 

day, 
Ye  Mountains,  and  ye  Vapours,  and  ye 

Waves, 

Ye  will  attest  the  wrongs  of  men  of  clay, 
When,  in  a  World  all  hush'd,  sits  on  our 

graves 
The    melancholy    Maker.      From    your 

caves 
Strange  echoes  of  our  old  lost  life  shall 

come ; 

With  still  eyes  fixed  on  your  vast  archi- 
traves, 

Nature  shall  speak,  though  mortal  lips  be 
dumb. 


Then   God  will  cry:  'Sadly  the  Waters 

fall, 
Sadly  the  Mountains  keep  their  snowy 

state, 
The  Clouds  pass  on,  the  Winds  and  Echoes 

call, 

The  World  is  sweet,  yet  wearily  I  wait. 
Though  all  is  fair,  and  I  am  Lord  of  all, 
Without  my  Children  I  am  desolate.' 


VI. 
DESOLATE  ! 

DESOLATE  !   How  the  Peaks  of  ashen  gray, 
The  smoky  Mists  that  drift  from  hill  to 

hill, 

The  Waters  dark,  anticipate  this  day 
That  sullen  desolation.     Oh,  how  still 
The  shadows  come  and  vanish,  with  no 

will! 
How  still  the  Waters  watch  the  heaven's 

array! 

How  still  the  melancholy  vapours  stray, 
Mirror'd  below,  and  drifting  on,  fulfil 
Thy    mandate    as    they    mingle ! — Not  a 

sound, 

Save  that  deep  murmur  of  a  torrent  near, 
Deepening  silence.     Hush  !  the  dark  pro- 
found 
Groans,  as  some  gray  crag  loosens  and 

falls  sheer 

To  the  abyss.     Wildly  I  look  around, 
O  Spirit  of  the  Human,  are  Thou  here  f 


VII. 

LORD,  ART  THOU  HERE? 

LORD,  art  Thou  here  ?  far  from  the  citied 

zones, 

Brooding  in  melancholy  solitude  ; 
Hushing  Thy  breath  to  awful  undertones, 
Darkening  Thy  face,  if  mortal  foot  in- 
trude. 
Father,  how  shall  I  meet  Thee  in  this 

mood? 
How  shall  I  ask  Thee  why  Thou  dwell'st 

with  stones, 
While  far  away  the  world,  like  Lazarus, 

groans, 

Sick  for  Thy  healing.     Father,  if  Thou 
be'st  good, 


250 


CORUISKEN  SONNETS. 


And  wise,  and  gentle,  oh  come  down,  come 

down  ! 

Come  like  an  Angel  with  a  human  face, 
Pass  through  the  gates  into  the  hungry 

Town, 
Comfort  the  weary,   send  the    afflicted 

grace, 
Shine  brighter  on  the  Graves  where  we  lay 

down 

Our  dear  ones,  cheer  them  in  the  narrow 
place  ! 


VIII. 

GOD  is  BEAUTIFUL. 
OH,   Thou  art  beautiful!  and  Thou  dost 

bestow 
Thy  beauty  on    this    stillness — still    as 

sheep 
The  Hills  lie  under  Thee  ;  the  Waters 

deep 

Murmur  for  joy  of  Thee  ;  the  voids  below 
Mirror  Thy  strange  fair  Vapours  as  they 

flow  ; 

And  now,  afar  upon  the  barren  height, 
Thou  sendest  down  a  radiant  look  of  light 
So  that  the  still  Peaks  glisten,  and  a  glow 
Rose-colour'd  tints  the  little  snowy  cloud 
That  poises  on  the  highest  peak  of  all. 
Oh,   Thou  art    beautiful ! — the    Hills  are 

bowed 
Beneath  Thee ;  on  Thy  name  the  soft 

Winds  call— 

The  monstrous  Ocean  trumpets  it  aloud, 
The  Rains  and  Snows  intone  it  as  they 
fall. 


IX. 

THE  MOTION  OF  THE  MISTS. 

HERE  by  the  sunless  Lake  there  is  no  air, 
Yet  with  how  ceaseless  motion,  like  a 

shower 
Flowing  and  fading,  do  the  high  Mists 

lower 

Amid  the  gorges  of  the  Mountains  bare. 
Some  weary  breathing  never  ceases  there, — 
The  barren  peaks  can  feel  it  hour  by 

hour ; 
The  purple  depths  are  darken'd  by  its 

power ; 

A  soundless  breath,  a  trouble  all  things 
share 


That  feel  it  come  and  go.     See  !  onward 

swim 
The  ghostly  Mists,  from  silent  land  to 

land, 
From  gulf  to  gulf;    now  the    whole  air 

grows  dim — 
Like  living  men,  darkling  a  space,  they 

stand. 

But  lo  !  a  Sunbeam,  like  the  Cherubim, 
Scatters  them  onward  with    a  flaming 
brand. 


x. 

CORUISK. 

I  THINK  this  is  the  very  stillest  place 
On  all  God's  earth,  and  yet  no  rest  is 

here. 
The  Vapours  mirror'd  in  the  black  loch's 

face 

Drift  on  like  frantic  shapes    and    dis- 
appear ; 

A  never-ceasing  murmur  in  mine  ear 
Tells  me  of  Waters  wild  that  flow  and 

flow. 

There  is  no  rest  at  all  afar  or  near, 
Only  a  sense  of  things  that  moan  and  go. 
And  lo  !    the  still  small  life  these  limbs 

contain 
I  feel  flows  on  like  those,  restless  and 

proud ; 
Before  that  breathing  nought  within  my 

brain 
Pauses,  but  all  drifts  on  like  mist  and 

cloud  ; 

Only  the  bald  Peaks  and  the  Stones  remain, 
Frozen  before  Thee,  desolate  and  bowed. 


XI. 

BUT  WHITHEP? 

AND    whither,    O    ye    Vapours !     do   ye 

wend? 
Stirred  by  that  weary  breathing,  whither 

away? 
And  whither,  O  ye  Dreams !  that  night 

and  day 
Drift  o'er  the  troublous  life,  tremble,  and 

blend 

To  broken  lineaments  of  that  far  Friend, 
Whose  strange  breath's  come  and  go  ye 
must  obey  ? 


CORUISKEN  SONNETS. 


251 


O  sleepless  Soul !  in  the  world's  waste 

astray, 
Whither?    and  will  thy  wanderings  ever 

end? 

All  things  that  be  are  full  of  a  quick  pain  ; 
Onward  we  fleet,   swift  as  the  running 

rill,— 
The  vapours  drift,    the  mists  within  the 

brain 

Float  on  obscuringly  and  have  no  will. 

Only  the  bare  Peaks  and  the  Stones  remain  ; 

These  only, — and  a  God  sublimely  still. 


XII. 

GOD  is  PITILESS. 

OH,   Thou  art  pitiless  !    They  call  Thee 

Light, 
Law,    Justice,     Love  ;    but     Thou     art 

pitiless. 
What  thing  of  earth  is  precious  in  Thy 

sight, 

But  weary  waiting  on  and  soul's  distress? 
When  dost  Thou   come    with   glorious 

hands  to  bless 
The  good  man  that  dies  cold  for  lack  of 

Thee? 
When  bring'st   Thou  garlands  for  our 

happiness  ? 
Whom  dost  Thou  send  but  Death  to  set  us 

free? 
Blood  runs  like  wine— foul  spirits  sit  and 

rule — 
The  weak  are  crushed  in  every  street  and 

lane — 

He  who  is  generous  becomes  the  fool 
Of  all  the  world,   and  gives  his  life  in 

vain. 

Wert  Thou  as  good  as  Thou  art  beautiful, 
Thou  couldst  not  bear  to  look  upon  such 
pain. 

XIII. 

YEA,  PITILESS. 

YEA,  Thou  art  pitiless — Thou  dost  permit 
The  Priest  to  use  Thee  as  a  hangman's 

cord — 
Thou  proppest  up  the   Layman's   shallow 

wit, 

Driving  the  Beggar  from  the  laden  board — 

Thou  art  the  easy  text  of  those  who  hoard 

Their  gifts  in  secret  chests  for  Death  to  see. 


'  Mighty  and  strong  and  glorious  is  the 

Lord ! ' 
The  Prophet  cries,  gone  mad  for  lack  of 

Thee! 
While  good  men  dying  deem  Thy  grace  a 

dream, 
While  sick   men  wail  for  Thee  and  mad 

blaspheme, 
A  thousand  forms  of  Thee  the  foolish 

preach — 

Fair  stretch  Thy  temples  over  all  the  lands, 
In  each  of  these  some  barbarous   Image 

stands, 
And  men  grow  atheists  in  the  shrine  of 

each. 


COULD  GOD  BE  JUDGED. 

CAN  I  be  calm,  beholding  everywhere 
Disease    and   Anguish  busy,  early  and 

late? 

Can  I  be  silent,  nor  compassionate 
The  evils  that  both  Soul  and  Body  bear  ? 
Oh,   what  have  sickly  Children  done,  to 

share 
Thy  cup  of  sorrows?  yet  their  dull,  sad 

pain 
Makes  the  earth    awful ; — on  the  tomb's 

dark  stair 
Moan   Idiots,    with  no  glimmer  in  the 

brain. 
No  shrill  Priest  with  his  hangman's  cord 

can  beat 

Thy  mercy  into  these — ah  nay,  ah  nay ! 
The  Angels  Thou  hast  sent  to  haunt  the 

street 

Are  Hunger  and  Distortion  and  Decay. 
Lord  !  that  mad'st  Man,  and  send'st  him 

foes  so  fleet, 

Who  shall  judge  Thee  upon  Thy  judg- 
ment-day ? 

xv. 
THE  HILLS  ON  THEIR  THRONES. 

GHOSTLY   and  livid,  robed  with  shadow, 

see! 
Each    mighty    Mountain    silent    on   its 

throne, 
From  foot  to  scalp  one  stretch  of  livid 

stone, 
Without  one  gleam  of  grass  or  greenery. 


252 


CORUISKEN  SONNETS. 


Silent  they  take  the  immutable  decree — 
Darkness  or  sunlight  come, — they  do  not 

stir; 
Each  bare  brow  lifted  desolately  free, 

Keepeth  the  silence  of  a  death-chamber. 
Silent  they  watch  each  other  until-doom  ; 
They  see  each  other's  phantoms  come 

and  go, 
Yet  stir  not.     Now  the  stormy  hour  brings 

gloom, 
Now  all  things  grow  confused  and  black 

below, 

Specific  through  the  cloudy  Drift  they  loom, 
And  each  accepts  his  individual  woe. 


xvr. 
KING  BLAABHEIN. 

MONARCH  of  these  is  Blaabhein.     On  his 

height 
The  lightning  and  the  snow  sleep  side  by 

side, 
Like  snake  and  lamb  ;  hewaiteth  in  a  white 

And  wintry  consecration.     All  his  pride 
Is  husht  this  dimly-gleaming  autumn  day — 
He  broodeth  o'er  the  things  he  hath  be- 
held— 
Beneath  his  feet  the  Rains  crawl  still  and 

gray, 

Like  phantoms  of  the  mighty  men  of  eld. 
A  quiet  awe  the  dreadful  heights  doth  fill, 
The  high  clouds  pause  and  brood  above 

their  King ; 
The  torrent  murmurs  gently  as  a  rill ; 

Softly  and  low  the  winds  are  murmuring  ; 
A  small  black  speck  above  the  snow,  how 

still 
Hovers  the  Eagle,  with  no  stir  of  wing  ! 

XVII. 

BLAABHEIN  IN  THE  MISTS. 

WATCH  but  a  moment — all  is  changed  !   A 

moan 
Breaketh    the  beauty  of   that  noonday 

dream ; 

The  hoary  Titan  darkens  on  his  throne, 
And  with  an  indistinct  and  senile  scream 
Gazes  at  the  wild  Rains  as  past  they 

stream, 

Through  vaporous  air  wild-blowing  on  his 
brow ; 


All  black,  from  scalp  to  base  there  is  no 

gleam, 

Even  his  silent  snows  are  faded  now. 
Watch  yet !— and  yet !—  Behold,  and  all  is 

done — 
'Twas  but  the  shallow  shapes  that  come 

and  go, 

Troubling  the  mimic  picture  in  the  eye. 
Still  and  untroubled  sits  the  kingly  one. 
Yonder  the  Eagle  floats — there  sleeps  the 

Snow 

Against  the  pale  green  of  the  cloudless 
sky. 

XVIII. 

THE  FIERY  BIRTH  OF  THE  HILLS. 

O  HOARY  Hills,  though  ye  look  aged,  ye 
Are  but  the  children  of  a  latter  time — 
Methinks  I  see  ye  in  that  hour  sublime 
When  from  the  hissing  cauldron  ot  the  Sea 
Ye  were  upheaven,  while  so  terribly 
The  Clouds  boiled,  and  the   Lightning 

scorched  ye  bare. 

Wild,  new-born,  blind,  Titans  in  agony, 
Ye  glared  at  heaven  through  folds  of  fiery 

hair!  .  .  . 

Then,  in  an  instant,  while  ye  trembled  thus 

A  Hand  from  heaven,  white  and  luminous, 

Pass'd  o'er  your  brows,  and  husht  your 

fiery  breath. 
Lo !   one  by  one  the  still  Stars  gather'd 

round, 
The  great  Deep  glass'd  itself,  and  with  no 

sound 

A  cold  Snow  fell,   and  all  was  still  as 
death. 

XIX. 

THE  CHANGELESS  HILLS. 

ALL  power,  all  virtue,  is  repression— ye 

Are  stationary,  and  God  keeps  ye  great ; 
Around  your  heads  the  fretful  winds  play 

free; 

Ye  change  not — ye  are  calm  and  desolate. 
What  seems  to  us  a  trouble  and  a  'ate 
Is  but  the  loose  dust  streaming  from  your 

feet 
And  drifting  onward— early  ye  sit  and 

late, 

While  unseen  Winds  waft  past  the  things 
that  fleet 


CORUISKEN  SONNETS. 


253 


So  sit  for  ever,  still  and  passionless 

As  He  that  made  you  ! — thought  and  soul's 

distress 
Ye  know  not,  though  ye  contemplate  the 

strife ; 

Better  to  share  the  Spirit's  bitterest  aches — 

Better  to  be  the  weakest  Wave  that  breaks 

On  a  wild  Ocean  of  tempestuous  Life. 


XX. 

O  MOUNTAIN  PEAK  OF  A  GOD. 

FATHER,  if  Thou  imperturbable  art, 
Passive    as     these,    lords    of    a    lonely 

land- 

If,  having  laboured,  Thou  must  sit  apart — 
If  having  once  open'd  the   Void,   and 

planned 

This  tragedy,  Thou  must  impassive  stand 
Spectator  of  the  scenic  flow  of  things, 
Then    I— a    drop    of    dew,  a  grain    of 

sand — 

Pity  Thy  lot,  poor  palsied  King  of  Kings. 
Better  to  fail  and  fail,  to  shriek  and  shriek, 
Better  to  break,    like    any    Wave,  and 

go,— 

Impotent  godhead,  let  Thy  slave  be  weak! — 
Yea,  do  not  freeze  my  Soul,  but  let  it 

flow- 
On,  wherefore  call  to  Thee,  a  mountain 

Peak 
Impassive,  beautiful,  serene  with  snow  ? 


xxr. 
GOD  THE  IMAGE. 

IMPASSIVE,  beautiful,  and  desolate, 

Is  this  the  Lord  my  God,  whom  I  en- 
treat? 

Powerless  to  stay  the  ravages  of  fate- 
Jove  with  his  right  hand  palsied,  Jove 

effete, 

Fetter'd  by  frost  upon  a  stony  seat — 
O  dreadful  apparition  !    Can  this  be  ? 
Yonder  He  looms,  where  never  a  heart 

doth  beat, 

In  the  cold  ether  of  theology. 
Come  down  !  come   down  !  O   Souls  that 

wander  there ! 

Cold  are  the  snows,  chill  is  the   dreadful 
air- 


Come  down  !  come  down  into  the  Valleys 

deep ; 
Leave  the  wild  Image  to  the.  stars,   that 

rise 

Around  about  it  with  affrighted  eyes  ; 
Come  to  green  under-glooms,  and  sink, 
and  sleep. 

XXII. 

THE  FOOTPRINTS. 

COME  to  green  under-glooms, — and  in  your 

hair 
Weave    nightshade,   foxglove    red,   and 

rank  wolfsbane, 

And  slumber  and  forget  Him  ;  if  in  vain 
Ye  try  to  slumber  off  your  sorrow  there, 
Arise  once  more  and  openly  repair 

To  busy  haunts  where  men  and  women 

sigh, 

And  if  all  things  but  echo  back  your  care, 
Cry  out  aloud,  '  There  is  no  God  ! '  and 

die. 

But  if  upon  a  day  when  all  is  dark, 
Thou,  stooping  in  the  public  ways,  shall 

mark 
Strange  luminous  footprints  as  of  feet 

that  shine — 
Follow  them !    follow   them !    O   soul  be- 

reaven  ! 
God  had  a  Son — He  hath  pass'd  that  way 

to  heaven : 
Follow,  and  look  upon  the  Face  divine ! 


XXIII. 

WE  ARE  DEATHLESS. 

YET  hear  me,   Mountains  !   echo  me,   O 

Sea! 
Murmur  an  answer,    Winds,   from   out 

your  caves  ; 
Cry  loudly,  Torrents,  Mountains,  Winds, 

and  Waves — 

Hark  to  my  crying  all,  and  echo  me — 
All  things  that  live  are  deathless — I  and 

ye. 

The  Father  could  not  slay  us  if  He  would  ; 
The  Elements  in  all  their  multitude 
Will  rise  against  their  Master  terribly, 
If  but  one  hair  upon  a  human  head 
Should  perish  !  .  .  .  Darkness  grows  on 
crag  and  steep, 


254 


CORUISKEN  SONNETS. 


A  hollow  thunder  fills  the  torrent's  bed  ; 
The  wild  Mists  moan  and  threaten  as 

they  creep  ; 
And  hush  !  now,  when  all  other  cries  are 

fled, 

The  warning  murmur  of  the  white-hair' d 
Deep. 

XXIV. 

A  VOICE  IN  THE  WHIRLWIND. 

I  HEARD  a  Whirlwind  on  the  mountain 

peak 
Pause  for  a  space  its  furious  flight  and 

cry — 
1  There  is  no  Death  ! '  loudly  it  seemed  to 

shriek ; 
'  Nothing  that  is,  beneath  the  sun,  shall 

die.' 
The  frail  sick  Vapours  echoed,  drifting 

by- 
'  There  is  no  Death,  but  change  early  and 

late; 
Powerless  were    God's    right    Hand,    full 

arm'd  with  fate, 
To  slay  the  meanest  thing  beneath  the 

sky.' 
Yea,  even  as  tremulous  foam-bells  on  the 

sea, 
Coming  and  going,    are  all    things    of 

breath  ; 
But  evermore,  deathless,  and  bright,  and 

free, 
We  re-emerge,  in  spite  of  Change  or 

Death. 

Hearken,    O  Mountains !      Waters,   echo 
me ! 

0  wild  Wind,  echo  what  the  Man-Wind 
saith ! 

XXV. 

CRY  OF  THE  LITTLE  BROOK. 

CHRIST  help  me  !  whither  would  my  dark 
thoughts  run, 

1  look  around  me,  trembling  fearfully  ; 
The  dreadful  silence  of  the  Silent  One 

Freezes  my  lips,  and  all  is  sad  to  sec. 
Hark  !  hark  !  what  small  voice  murmurs 

'  God  made  me  ! ' 

It  is  the  Brooklet,  singing  all  alone, 
Sparkling  with  pleasure  that  is  all  its  own, 
And  running,  self-contented,  sweet,  and 
free. 


O  Brooklet,  born  where  never  grass  is  green, 

Finding  the  stony  hill  and  flowing  fleet, 
Thou  comest  as  a  Messenger  serene, 

With  shining  wings  and  silver-sandall'd 

feet; 

Faint  falls  thy  music  on  a  Soul  unclean, 
And,  in  a  moment,  all  the  World  looks 
sweet ! 

XXVI. 

THE  HAPPY  HEARTS  OF  EARTH. 

WHENCE  thou  hast  come,  thou  knowest 

not,  little  Brook, 
Nor  whither  thou  art  bound.     Yet  wild 

and  gay, 
Pleased  in  thyself,  and  pleasing  all  that 

look, 
Thou  wendest,   all  the  seasons,  on  thy 

way; 
The  lonely  glen  grows  gladsome  with  thy 

play, 
Thou  glidest  lamb-like  through  the  ghostly 

shade  ; 
To  think  of  solemn  things  thou  wast  not 

made, 
But  to  sing  on,  for  pleasure,  night  and 

day. 
Such  happy  hearts  are  wandering,  crystal 

clear, 
In  the  great  world  where  men  and  women 

dwell ; 
Earth's  mighty  shows  they  neither  love  nor 

fear, 

They  are  content  to  be,  while  I  rebel, 
Out  of  their  own  delight  dispensing  cheer, 
And  ever  softly  whispering,  '  All  is  well  1 ' 


XXVII. 

FATHER,  FORGIVE  THY  CHILD. 

OH  SING,  clear  Brook,  sing  on,  while  in  a 

dream 

I  feel  the  sweetness  of  the  years  go  by  ! 
The  crags  and  peaks  are  softened  now,  and 

seem 

Gently  to  sleep  against  the  gentle  sky  ; 
Old  scenes  and  faces  glimmer  up  and  die, 
With  outlines  of  sweet  thought  obscured 

too  long ; 
Like  boys  that  shout  at  play  far  voices 

cry; 
Oh  sing  !  for  I  am  weeping  at  the  song. 


CORUISKEN  SONNETS. 


255 


I  know  not  what  I  am,  but  only  know 
I  have  had  glimpses  tongue  may  never 

speak ; 

No  more  I  balance  human  joy  and  woe, 
But  think  of  my  transgressions,  and  am 

meek. 
Father!    forgive    the    child    who    fretted 

so, — 

His  proud  heart  yields, — the  tears  are  on 
his  cheek  ! 

XXVIII. 

GOD'S  LONELINESS. 

WHEN,    in    my  strong  affection,    I  have 

sought 

To  play  at  Providence  with  men  of  clay, 
How  hath  my  good  come  constantly  to 

nought, 
How  hath  my  light  and  love  been  cast 

away, — 
How  hath  my  light  been  light  to  lead 

astray, 

How  hath  my  love  become  of  sorry  worth, 
How  feeble    hath    been  all   my   soul's 

essay 

To  aid  one  single  man  on  all  God's  earth  ! 
Father  in   Heaven,    when    I    think   these 

things, 
Helpless  Thou  seemest  to  redeem    our 

plight — 
Thy  lamp  shines  on  shut  eyes — each  Spirit 

springs 

To  its  own  stature  still  in  Thy  despite — 
While  haggard  Nature  round  Thy  footstool 

clings, 

Pale,  powerless,  sitt'st  Thou,  in  a  Lonely 
Light. 

XXIX. 

THE  CUP  OF  TEARS. 

MY  God  !  my  God  !  with  passionate  appeal, 
Pardon  I  crave  for  these  mad  moods  of 

mine, — 

Can  I  remember,  with  no  heart  to  feel, 
The  gift  of  Thy  dear   Son,    the    Man 

Divine — 
My  God !    what  agonies   of  love  were 

Thine, 

Sitting  alone,  forgotten,  on  Thy  height, 
Pale,  powerless,  awful  in  that  Lonely  Light, 
While  'neath  Thy  feet  the  cloudy  hyaline 


Rain'd  blood  upon  the  darkness, — where 

Thine  Own 
Held  the  black  Cup  of  all  earth's  tears, 

and  cried ! 
Ev'n  then,  tho'  Thou  wert  conscious  of  his 

groan, 
Pale  in  that  Lonely  Light  Thou  did'st 

abide, 
Nor  dared,  even  then,  tho'  shaken  on  Thy 

throne, 

To  reach  Thy  hand  and  dash  the  Cup 
aside. 

xxx. 
THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  WORLD. 

ON  the  dark  waters  of  man's  thought  still 

gleams 

Softly  and  silvernly,  from  night  to  night, 
That  starlight  Legend,  though  its  substance 

seems 

Consuming  in  the  melancholy  light 
It  sheddeth.     Father,  do  I  see  aright  ? 
Is  it  a  truth  or  most  divine  of  dreams  ? 
That  He,  Thy  Child,  walk'd  once  in  rai- 
ment white 

With  mortal  men,  and  mused  by  Syrian 
streams  ? 

0  Life  that  puts  our  noblest  life  to  shame, 
Was  it  a  Star,  or  light  to  lead  astray  ? 

Thought's  waves  grow  husht  beneath  that 

silvern  flame, 

Our  hopes  pursue  it  and  our  doubts  obey ; 
And  whether  truth  or  phantom,  it  became 
The    sweetest    sphere    that    lights    the 
World's  black  way. 

XXXI. 

EARTH'S  ELDEST  BORN. 

BUT  He,  the  only  One  of  mortal  birth 
Who  raised  the  Veil  and  saw  the  Face 

behind, 
While  yet   He  wander'd  footsore  on  the 

earth, 
Beheld    His    Father's   Eyes,— that  they 

were  kind. 

Here  in  the  dark  I  grope,  confused,  pur- 
blind ; 

1  have  not  seen  the  glory  and  the  peace  ; 

But  on  the  darken' cl  mirror  of  the  mind 
Strange  glimmers  fall,  and  shake  me  till 
they  cease — 


CO  RU IS  KEN  SONNETS. 


Then,  wondering,  dazzled,  on  Thy  name  I 

call, 
And,  like  a  child,  reach  empty  hands  and 

moan, 

And  broken  accents  from  my  wild  lips  fall, 
And   I    implore    Thee    in    this    human 

tone  ; — 

If  such  as  I  can  follow  Him  at  all 
Into  Thy  presence,  'tis  by  love  alone. 

xxxi  r. 
WHAT  SPIRIT  COMETH? 

WHO  cometh  wandering  hither  in  my  need  ? 
What  gentle  Ghost  from  Heaven  cometh 

now? — 

Oh,  I  am  broken  to  the  rod  indeed — 
Father,  my  earthly  father,  is  it  thou  ? 
The  stooping  shape  with  piteous  human 

brow, 
The  dear  quaint  gesture,  and  the  feeble 

pace, 

The  weary-eyed,  world-worn,  beloved  face, 
Ev'n  as  they  wildly  faded,  meet  me  now. 
A  gentle  voice  flows  softly,  saying  plain  : 
'  From   death   comes    light,    from    pain 

beatitude ; 
Chide  not  at  loss,  for  out  of  loss  comes 

gain  ; 
Chide  not  at  grief,  for  'tis  the  Soul's  best 

food- 
Out  of  my  death-chamber,  out  of  wrong 

and  pain, 
Cometh  a  life  and  odour.     God  is  good. ' 

XXXIII. 

STAY,  O  SPIRIT! 

FATHER,  my  earthly  father,  stay,  oh  stay  ! 

\  know  thou  wert  a  man  as  others  be  ; 
Sore  were  thy  feet  upon  the  World's  cold 
clay, 


And  thou  didst  stumble  oft,  and  on  thy 

knee 
Knelt  little  ;  but  thy  gentle  heart  gleamed 

free 

In  cloud  and  shadow,  giving  its  best  cheer; 
Thou  had'st  an  open  hand,  and  laugh'd 

for  glee 
When  happy  men  or  creatures  dumb  played 

near. 
But  in  thy  latter  years  God's  scourge  was 

sore 
Upon  thee — weary  were  thy  wrongs  and 

dire, — 
Yet  blessings  on  thee — until  all  was  o'er, 

Cheery  thou  wert  beside  a  cheerless  fire — 
Till  one  red  dawn  the   mark  was  on  the 

door, 

And  thou  wert  dead  to  all  the  world's 
desire. 

XXXIV. 

QUIET  WATERS. 

O  RAINBOW,  Rainbow,  on  the  livid  height, 

Softening  its  ashen  outlines  into  dream, 
Dewy  yet  brilliant,  delicately  bright 
As  pink  wild-roses'  leaves,  why  dost  thou 

gleam 

So  be.:koningly  ?     Whom  dost  thou  invite 
Still  higher  upward  on  the  bitter  quest? 
What  dost  thou  promise  to  the  weary  sight 
In  that  strange  region  whence  thou  is- 

suest  ? 
Speakest  thou  of  pensive  runlets  by  whose 

side 

Our  dear  ones  wander  sweet  and  gentle- 
eyed, 

In  the  soft  dawn  of  some  diviner  Day  ? 
Art  thou  a  promise  ?    Come  those  hues  and 

dyes 
From  heavenly  Meads,    near  wh'ch   thou 

dost  arise, 
Iris'd  from  Quiet  Waters,  far  away  ! 


THE  BOOK  OF  ORM. 


•57 


The  Book  of  Orm. 


'This  also  we  humbly  beg,  —  that  Human  things  may  not  prejudice  such  as  are  Divine,  neither 
that  from  the  unlocking  of  the  Gates  of  Sense,  and  the  kindling  of  a  greater  Natural  Light,  any- 
thing of  incredulity  or  intellectual  night  may  arise  in  our  minds  towards  DIVINE  MYSTERIES.'  — 
STUDENT'S  PRAYER,  BACON. 

1  To  vindicate  the  ways  of  God  to  man.'  —  MILTON. 

'  God's  Mystery  will  I  vindicate,  the  Mystery  of  the  Veil  and  of  the  Shadow  ;  yea,  also  Death 
and  Sorrow,  God's  divine  Angels  on  all  earths  ;  and  I  will  vindicate  the  Soul,  that  the  Soul  may 
vindicate  the  Flesh  ;  and  all  these  things  shall  vindicate  Evil,  proving  God's  mercy  to  His  creatures, 
great  and  small.'—  A  RUNE  FOUND  IN  THE  STARLIGHT. 


INSCRIPTION. 
To  F.  W.  C. 

FLOWERS  pluckt  upon  a  grave  by  moonlight,  pale 

And  suffering,  from  the  spiritual  light 

They  grew  in :    these,   with  all  the  love  and 

blessing 
That  prayers  can  gain  of  God,  I  send  to  thee  ! 


PROEM. 

(TO  BOOK  OF  ORM    AND 
POLITICAL  MYSTICS. ) 

WHEN  in  these  songs  I  name  the  Name  of 

God, 
I  mean  not  Him  who  ruled  with  brazen 

rod 

The  rulers  of  the  Jew  ;  nor  Him  who  calm 
Sat  reigning  on  Olympus  ;  nay,  nor  Brahm, 
Osiris,  Allah,  Odin,  Balder,  Thor, 
(Though  these  I  honour,  with  a  hundred 

more)  ; 

Menu  I  mean  not,  nor  the  Man  Divine, 
The  pallid  Rainbow  lighting  Palestine  ; 
Nor  any  lesser  of  the  gods  which  Man 
Hath  conjured  out  of  Night  since  Time 

began. 

I  mean  the  primal  Mystery  and  Light, 
The  most  Unfathomable,  Infinite, 
The  Higher  Law,  Impersonal,  Supreme, 
The  Life  in  Life,  the  Dream  within  the 

Dream, 


The  Fountain  which  in  silent  melody 

Feeds  the  dumb  waters  of  Eternity, 

The  Source  whence  every  god  hath  flown 

and  flows, 
And  whither  each  departs  to  find  repose. 


THE  BOOK  OF  THE  VISIONS  SEEN 
BY  ORM   THE  CELT. 

THERE    is    a    mortal,    and    his    name  is 

Orm, 
Born  in  the  evening  of   the  world,   and 

looking 
Back    from    the   sunset  to    the    gates    of 

morning. 

And  he  is  aged  early,  in  a  time 
When  all  are  aged  early, — he  was  born 
In  twilight  times,  and  in  his  soul  is  twilight. 

O  brother,   hold    me    by    the  hand,   and 

hearken, 
For  these  things  I  shall  phrase  are  thine  and 

mine, 
And  all  men's, — all  are  seeking  for  a  sign. 

Thou  wert    born  yesterday,  but  thou  art 

old, 

Weary  to-day,  to-morrow  thou  wilt  sleep— 
Take    these    for    kisses     on     thy    closing 

eyelids, 

S 


THE   BOOK  OF  ORM. 


The  great  Veil  darkens, 

I. 

And  ye  see  full  clearly 

FIRST  SONG   OF   THE    VEIL. 

Glittering  numberless 
The  gems  thereon. 

How  God  in  the  beginning  drew 

For  the  lamp  of  his  features 

Over  his  face  the  Veil  of  blue, 

Divinely  burning, 

Wherefore  no  soul  of  mortal  race 

Shines,  and  suffuses 

Hath  ever  look'd  upon  the  Face  ; 
Children  of  earth  whose  spirits  fail 
fleark  to  the  First  Song  of  the  Veil. 

The  Veil  with  light. 
And  the  Face,  drawn  backward 
With  that  deep  sighing 

I. 

Ye  hear  in  the  gloaming, 

THE  VEIL  WOVEN. 

Leaveth  the  Night. 

IN  the  beginning, 

Thus  it  befell  to  men 

Ere  Man  grew, 

Graveward  they  journeyed, 

The  Veil  was  woven 

From  waking  to  sleeping, 

Bright  and  blue  ; 

In  doubt  and  in  fear, 

Soft  mists  and  vapours 

Evermore  hoping, 

Gather  'd  and  mingled 

Evermore  seeking, 

Over  the  black  world 

Nevermore  guessing 

Stretched  below, 

The  Master  so  near  : 

While  winds  of  heaven 
Blew  from  all  places, 
Shining  luminous, 

Making  strange  idols, 
Rearing  fair  Temples, 
Crying,  denying, 

A  starry  snow. 

Questioning,  dreaming, 

Blindly,  dumbly, 

Nevermore  certain 

Darken'd  under 

Of  God  and  His  grace,  — 

Ocean  and  river, 

Evermore  craving, 

Mountain  and  dale, 

To  look  on  a  token, 

While  over  his  features, 

To  gaze  on  a  Face. 

Wondrous,  terrible, 

The  beautiful  Master 

Now  an  Evangel, 

Drew  the  Veil  : 

Whom  God  loved  deep, 

Then  starry,  luminous, 

Said,  '  See  !  the  mortals, 

Rolled  the  Veil  of  azure 

How  they  weep  ! 

O'er  the  first  dwellings 

They  grope  in  darkness, 

Of  mortal  race  ; 

They  blunder  onward 

—  And  since  the  beginning 

From  race  to  race, 

No  mortal  vision, 

Were  it  not  better, 

Pure  or  sinning, 

Once  and  for  ever, 

Hath  seen  the  Face 

To  unveil  the  Face  ?  ' 

Yet  mark  me  closely  ! 

God  smiled. 

Strongly  I  swear, 

He  said—'  Not  yet  ? 

Seen  or  seen  not, 

Much  is  to  remember, 

The  Face  is  there  \ 

Much  to  forget  ; 

When  the  Veil  is  clearest 

Be  thou  of  comfort  ! 

And  sunniest, 

How  should  the  token 

Closest  and  nearest 

Silence  their  wail  ?  ' 

The  Face  is  prest  ; 

But  when,  grown  weary 

And,  with  eyes  tear-clouded, 

With  long  downlooking, 

He  gazed  through  the  luminous, 

The  Face  withrawing 

Star-inwrought,  beautiful, 

For  a  time  is  gone, 

Folds  of  the  Veil. 

FIRST  SONG   OF  THE    VETL. 


259 


EARTH  THE  MOTHER. 

BEAUTIFUL,  beautiful,  she  lay  below, 

The  mighty  Mother  of  humanity, 
Turning  her  sightless  eyeballs  to  the  glow 

Of  light  she  could  not  see, 
Feeling  the  happy  warmth,  and  breathing 

slow 

As  if  her  thoughts  were  shining  tran- 
quilly. 

Beautiful,  beautiful  the  Mother  lay, 
Crowned  with  silver  spray, 
The  greenness  gathering  hushfully  around 
The  peace  of  her  great  heart,  while  on 

her  breast 
The  wayward  Waters, with  a  weeping  sound, 

Were  sobbing  into  rest. 
For  all  day  long  her  face  shone  merrily, 
And  at  its  smile  the  waves  leapt  mad  and 

free: 

But  at  the  darkening  of  the  Veil,  she  drew 
The  wild  things  to  herself,   and  husht 

their  cries. 

Then,  stiller,  dumber,  search'd  the  deepen- 
ing Blue 

With  passionate  blind  eyes  ; 
And  went  the  old  life  over  in  her  thought, 
Dreamily  praying  as  her  memory  wrought 
The  dimly  guessed  at,  never  utter'd  tale, 

While,  over  her  dreaming, 
.  Deepen'd  the  luminous, 

Star-inwrought,  beautiful, 
Folds  of  the  wondrous  Veil. 

For  more  than  any  of  her  children  of  clay 
The  beautiful  Mother  knows — 

She  is  so  old  ! 

Ye  would  go  wild  to  hearken,  if  this  day 
Her  dumb  lips  should  unclose, 

And  the  tale  be  told : 
Such  unfathomable  things, 
Such  mystic  vanishings, 
She  knoweth  about  God — she  is  so  old. 

For  oft,  in  the  beginning,  long  ago, 
Without  a  Veil  looked  down  the  Face  ye 

know, 
And    Earth,   an    infant    happy-eyed    and 

bright, 
Look'd  smiling  up,  and  gladden'd  in  its 

sight. 


But  later,  when  the  Man  Flower  from  her 

womb 

Burst  into  brightening  bloom, 
In  her  glad  eyes  a  golden  dust  was  blown 
Out  of  the   Void,  and  she  was  blind  as 

stone. 

And  since  that  day 

She  hath  not  seen,  nor  spoken, — lest  her 

say 
Should  be  a  sorrow  and  fear  to  mortal 

race, 
And  doth  not  know  the  Lord  hath  hid 

away, 

But  turneth  up  blind  orbs — to  feel  the 
Face. 


CHILDREN  OF  EARTH. 

So  dumbly,  blindly, 
So  cheerly,  sweetly, 
The  beautiful  Mother 

Of  mortals  smiled  ; 
Her  children  marvell'd 
And  looked  upon  her — 
Her  patient  features 

Were  bright  and  mild  ; 
And  on  her  eyeballs 

Night  and  day, 
A  sweet  light  glimmer'd 

From  far  away. 
Her  children  gather'd 

With  sobs  and  cries, 
To  see  the  sweetness 

Of  sightless  eyes  ; 
But  though  she  held  them 

So  dear,  so  dear, 
She  could  not  answer, 

She  could  not  hear. 
She  felt  them  flutter 

Around  her  knee, 
She  felt  their  weeping, 
Yet  knew  not  wherefore — 

She  could  not  see. 
'  O  Mother  !  Mother 

Of  mortal  race  ! 
Is  there  a  Father? 

Is  there  a  Face  ? ' 
She  felt  their  sorrow 

Against  her  cheek, — 
She  could  not  hearken, 

She  could  not  speak  ; 
With  thin  lips  fluttering, 

32 


a6o 


THE   BOOK  OF  OJRM. 


With  blind  eyes  tearful, 

And  features  pale, 
She  clasp'd  her  children, 
And  looked  in  silence 

Upon  the  Veil. 

Her  hair  grew  silvern, 

The  swift  days  fled, 
Her  lap  was  heavy 

With  children  dead  ; 
To  her  heart  she  held  them, 
But  could  not  warm  them — 
The  life  within  them 

Was  gone  like  dew. 
Whiter,  stiller, 

The  Mother  grew. 

The  World  grew  hoary, 
The  World  was  weary, 
The  children  cried  at 

The  empty  air : 
'  Father  of  mortals  ! ' 
The  children  murmured, 
•Father!  Father! 

Art  Thou  there?' 
Then  the  Master  answer'd 

From  the  thunder-cloud : 
'  I  am  God  the  Maker ! 
I  am  God  the  Master ! 
I  am  God  the  Father ! ' 

He  cried  aloud. 
Further,  the  Master 

Made  sign  on  sign — 
Footprints  of  his  spirits, 

Voices  divine ; 
His  breath  was  a  water, 

His  cry  was  a  wind. 

But  the  people  heard  not, 
The  people  saw  not, — 
Earth  and  her  children 
Were  deaf  and  blind. 

IV. 

THE  WISE  MEN. 

•  CALL  the  great  philosophers  ! 
Call  them  all  hither,— 

The  good,  the  wise  ! ' 
Their  robes  were  snowy, 
Their  hearts  were  holy, 

They  had  cold  still  eyes. 
To  the  mountain-summits 


Wearily  they  wander' d, 
Reaching  the  desolate 

Regions  of  snow, 
Looming  there  lonely, 
They  searched  the  Veil  wonderful 
With  tubes  fire-fashion'd 

In  caverns  below  .  .  . 
God  withdrew  backward, 
And  darker,  dimmer, 

Deepen'd  the  day : 
O'er  the  philosophers 
Looming  there  lonely 

Night  gather'd  gray. 
Then  the  wise  men  gazing 
Saw  the  lights  above  them 
Thicken  and  thicken, 

And  all  went  pale — 
Ah  !  the  lamps  numberless, 
The  mystical  jewels  of  God, 
The  luminous,  wonderful, 

Beautiful  lights  of  the  Veil ! 

Alas  for  the  Wise  Men  ! 
The  snows  of  the  mountain 

Drifted  about  them, 
And  the  wind  cried  round  them, 
As  the  lights  of  wonder 

Multiplied ! 

The  breath  of  the  mountain 
Froze  them  into  stillness, — 

They  sighed  and  died. 
Still  in  the  desolate 

Heights  overhead, 
Stand  their  shapes  frozen, 

Frozen  and  dead. 
But  a  weary  few, 
Weary  and  dull  and  cold, 
Crept  faintly  down  again, 

Looking  very  old  ; 
And  when  the  people 
Gather'd  around  them, 
The  heart  went  sickly 

At  their  dull  blank  stare — 
'  O  Wise  Men  answer  ! 
Is  there  a  Father? 
Is  there  a  beautiful 

Face  up  there  ? ' 

The  Wise  Men  answer'd  and  said  : 
'  Bury  us  deep  when  dead— 

We  have  travelled  a  weary  road, 
We  have  seen  no  more  than  ye, 
'Twere  better  not  to  be- 
There  is  no  God  ! ' 


FIRST  SONG  OF  THE   VEIL—THE  MAN  AND  THR  SHADOW.     261 


And  the  people,  hearkening, 
Saw  the  Veil  above  them, 
And  the  darkness  deepen'd, 

And  the  Lights  gleamed  pale. 
'  Ah  !  the  lamps  numberless, 
1  The  mystical  jewels  of  God, 
The  luminous,  wonderful, 
Beautiful  Lights  of  the  Veil ! 


II. 

THE  MAN  AND  THE  SHADOW. 

On  the  high  path  where  few  men  fare, 
Orm  meeteth  one  with  hoary  hair, 
And  speaketh,  solemn  and  afraid, 
Of  that  which  haunteth  him — a  Shade. 
Slowly,  with  weary  feet  and  weak, 
They  wander  to  a  mountain  peak ; 
And  to  the  man  with  hoary  hair 
A  Bridge  of  Spirits  riseth  fair, 
Whereon  his  Soul  with  gentle  moan 
Passeth  unto  the  Land  Unknown. 


THE  SHADOW. 

0  AGED  Man  who,  clad  in  pilgrim's  garb, 
With  staff  of  thorn  and  wallet  lying  near, 
Sittest  among  the  weeds  of  the  wayside, 
Gazing  with  hollow  eyeballs,  in  a  dream, 
On  that  which  sleeps — a  Shadow — at  thy 

feet! 
Hearest  thou? 

By  the  fluttering  of  thy  lips, 

1  know  thou  hearest;   yet,  with  downcast 

eyes, 

Thou  broodest  moveless,  letting  yonder  sun 
Make  thee  a  Dial,  worn  and  venerable, 
To  show  the  passing  hour.      All  things 

around 
Share  stillness  with  thee  ;  for  behold  they 

keep 
The  gloaming  of   the    year.      To  russet 

brown 

The  heather  fadeth  ;  on  the  treeless  hills, 
O'er  rusted  with  the  slow-decaying  bracken, 
The  sheep  crawl  slow  with  damp  and  red- 

stain'd  wool ; 
Keen  cutting  winds  from  the  Cold  Clime 

begin 

To  frost  the  edges  of  the  cloud— the  Sun 
Upriseth  slow  and  silvern— many  Rainbows 


People  the  desolate  air  with  flowers  that 

fade 
Through  pallor  unto  tears  ;  -  and  though 

these  flash 

Ever  around  thee,  here  thou  sittest  alone, — 
Best  Dial  of  them  all,  old,  moveless,  dumb, 
Ineffably  serene  with  aged  eyes, 
Still  as  a  stone, — yet  with  some  secret  spell 
Pertaining  to  the  human,  some  faint  touch 
Of  mystery  in  that  worn  face,  to  show 
Thy  wither' d  flesh  is  scented  with  a  SouL 

Nay,  then,  with  how  serene  and  sad  a  light 
Thy  face,  strange  gleams  of  spiritual  pain 
Fading  there,  turneth  up  to  mine !    Yea, 

smile ! 

Tender  as  sunlight  on  the  autumn  hills, 
Cometh  that  kindly  lustre !  Aye,  thy  hand — 
Something  mysterious  streameth  from  thy 

palm — 
Spirit  greets    spirit— scent  is  mixed  with 

scent — 
Sweet  is  the  touch  of  hands.    Behold  me, — 

Orm, 
Thy  brother ! 

Brother,  we  are  surely  bound 
On  the  same  journey, — and  our  eyes  alike 
Turn  up  and  onward  :  wherefore,  now  thou 

risest, 

Lean  on  mine  arm,  and  let  us  for  a  space 
Pursue  the  path  together.     Ah,  'tis  much, 
In  this  so  weary  pilgrimage,  to  meet 
A  royal  face  like  thine  ;  to  touch  the  hand 
Of  such  a  soul-fellow  ;  to  feel  the  want, 
The  upward-crying  hunger,  the  desire, 
The  common  hope  and  pathos,  justified 
By  knowledge  and  gray  hairs.     Come  on  ! 

come  on  ! 

Up  yonder !  Slowly,  leaning  on  my  strength, 
And    I  will    surely  pick    my    steps    with 

thine, — 
While  at  our  backs   the  secret  Shadows 

creep, 
And  imitate  our  motions  with  no  sound. 

Dost  thou  remember  more  than  I?    My 

Soul 
Remembereth  no  beginning. 

One  still  day, 
I  saw  the  Hills  around  me,  and  beheld 
The  Hills  had  shadows, -^f or  beyond  their 


262 


THE  BOOK  OF   ORM. 


The  fiery  Sun  was  setting  ; — then  I  saw 
My  Ghost  upon  the  gr  und,  a.<  d  as  I  ran 
Eastward,  the  melancholy  semblance  ran 
Before  my  footsteps  ;  and  I  felt  afraid. 

Could  I  have  shaken  off  this  grievous  thing, 
Much  had  been  spared  me.    Since  that  day 

I  ran, 

And  saw  it  run  before  me  in  the  sun, 
It  hath  been  with  me  in  the  day  and  night, 
The  sunlight  and  the  starlight — at  the  board 
Hath  joined  me,  darkening  the  festal  cup — 
Hath  risen  black  against  the  whitening  wall 
On  lonely  midnights,  when  by  the  wind's 

shriek 

Startled  from  terrible  visions  seen  in  dream, 
Rising  upon   my  couch,   and  with   quick 

breath 
Lighting  the  lamp,  I  hearkened— it  hath 

track'd 

My  footsteps  into  pastoral  churchyards, 
And  suddenly,  when  I  was  very  calm, 
Look'd  darkly  up  out  of  the  gentle  graves, 
So  that  I  clench'd  my  teeth,  or  should  have 

scream' d ; 
And  still  behind  me — see  ! — it  creeps  and 

creeps, 
Dim  in  the  dimness  of  this  autumn  day. 

Higher  !  yet  higher  !    Though  the  path 

is  steep, 

And  all  around  the  withering  bracken  rusts, 
Up  yonder  on  the  crag,  a  mossy  spring, 
Frosted  with  silver,  glistens,  and  around 
Grasses  as  green  as  hedgerows  in  the  May 
Cushion  the  lichen1  d  stones. 

Here  let  us  pause  : 
Here,  where  the  grass  gleams  emerald,  and 

the  spring 

Upbubbling  faintly  seemeth  as  a  sound, 
A  drowsy  hum,  heard  in  the  mind  itself — 
Here,  in  this  stillness,  let  us  pause  and 

mark 

The  many-colour'd  Picture.     Far  beneath 
Sleepeth  the  glassy  Ocean  like  a  sheet 
Of  liquid  mother-o'-pearl,  and  on  its  rim 
A  Ship  sleeps,  and  the  shadow  of  the  ship  ; 
Astern  the  reef  juts  darkly,  edged  with  foam, 
Through  the  smooth  brine  :  oh,  hark,  how 

loudly  sings 

A  wild,  weird  ditty  to  a  watery  tune, 
The  fisher  among  his  nets  upon  the  shore  ; 


And  yonder,  far  away,  his  shouting  bairns 
Are  running,  dwarf  d  by  distance  small  as 

mice, 

Along  the  yellow  sands.     Behind  us,  see 
The  immeasurable  Mountains,  rising  silent 
Against  the  fields  of  dreamy  blue,  wherein 
The  rayless  crescent  of  the  mid-day  Moon 
Lies  like  a  reaper's  sickle  ;  and  before  us 
The  immeasurable  Mountains,  rising  silent 
From  bourne   to  bourne,   from  knolls  of 

thyme  and  heather, 
To    leafless    slopes   of  granite,    from  the 

slopes 

Of  granite  to  the  dim  and  dusky  heights, 
Wnere,  with  a  silver  glimmer,  silently 
Pausing,  the  white  cloud  sheds  miraculous 

Snow 
On  the  heights  untravell'd,  whither  we  are 

bound. 

O  perishable  Brother,  what  a  World ! 
How  wondrous  and  how  fair !  Look  !  look  ! 

and  think  ! 

What  magic  mixed  the  tints  of  yonder  west, 
Wherein,  upon  a  cushion  soft  as  moss, 
A  heaven  pink-tinted  like  a  maiden's  flesh, 
The  dim  Star  of  the  Ocean  lieth  cool 
In  palpitating  silver,  while  beneath 
Her  image,  putting  luminous  feelers  forth, 
Bathes  liquid,  like  a  living  thing  o'  the  Sea. 
What  magic?     What   Magician?     O  my 

Brother, 
What  strange  Magician,  mixing  up  those 

tints, 

Pouring  the  water  down,  and  sending  forth 
The  crystal  air  like  breath,   snowing   the 

heavens 

With  luminous  jewels  of  the  day  and  night, 
Look'd  down,  and  saw  thee  lie  a  lifeless 

clod, 

And  lifted  thee,  and  moulded  thee  to  shape, 
Colour'd  thee  with   the  sunlight  till    thy 

blood 
Ran  ruby,  poured  the  chemic  tints  o'  the 

air 

Through  eyes  that  kindled  into  azure,  stole 
The  flesh-tints  of  the  lily  and  the  rose 
To  make  thee  wondrous  fair  unto  thyself, 
Knitted  thy  limbs  with  ruby  bands,  and 

blew 

Into  thy  hollow  heart  until  it  stirr'd, — 
Then  to  the  inner  chamber  of  his  Heaven 
Withdrawing,  left  in  midst  of  such  a  world 


THE  MAN  AND    THE  SHADOW. 


263 


The  living  apparition  of  a  Man, — 

A  mystery  amid  the  mysteries, — 

A  lonely  Semblance,  with  a  wild  appeal 

To  which  no  form  that  lives,  however  dear, 

Hath  given  a  tearless  answer, — a  Shape,  a 

Soul, 

Projecting  ever  as  it  ageth  on 
A  SHADE  which  is  a  silence  and  a  sleep. 

Yet  not  companionless,  within  this  waste 
Of  splendour,  dwellest  thou — here  by  thy 

side 

I  linger,  girdled  for  the  road  like  thee, 
With  pilgrim's  staff  and  scrip  ;  and  through 

the  vales, 

Below,  a  Storm  of  people  like  to  thee 
Drifts  with  thee  westward  darkly,  cloud  on 

cloud, 

Uttering  a  common  moan,  and  to  our  eyes 
Casting  one  common   shadow  ;    yet  each 

Soul 

Therein  now  seeketh,  with  a  want  like  thine, 
The  inevitable  bourne.     Nor  those  alone, 
Thy  perishable  brethren,  share  thy  want, 
And  wander  haunted  through  the  world  ; 

but  Beasts, 

With  that  dumb  hunger  in  their  eyes,  pro- 
ject 
Their  darkness — by  the  yeanling  Lambkin's 

side 
Its  shade  plays,  and  the  basking  Lizard 

hath 

Its  image  on  the  flat  stone  in  the  sun, — 
And  these,   the  greater  and  the  less,  like 

thee 

Shall  perish  in  their  season  :  in  the  mere 
The  slender  Water- Lily  sees  her  shape, 
And  sheddeth  softly  on  the  summer  air 
Her  last  chill   breathing  ;    and   the   forest 

Tree 

,   That,  standing  glorious  for  a  hundred  years, 
Lengthens  its  shadow  daily  from  the  sun, 
Fulfilleth  its  own  prophecy  at  last, 
And  falleth,  falleth.     Art  thou  comforted  ? 
Nay,   then, — behold   the  Shadows   of  the 

Hills, 

Attesting  these  are  perishable  too, 
And  cry  no  more  thou  art  companionless. 

How,  like  a  melancholy  bell,  thy  voice 
Echoes  the  word  !  '  Companionless ! '  Thine 

eyes 
butler  with  light  and  tears,  and  wearily 


Thou  searchest  all  the  picture  beautiful 
For  vanished  faces.    Still,  'companionless!' 

0  Brother,  let  me  hold  thy  hand  again — 
Spirit  greets   spirit — scent   is   mixed  with 

scent — 

Sweet  is  the  touch  of  hands.    Look  on  me  ! 
Orm  ! 

Thy  Brother  1 

And  no  nearer?    O  'tis  sad 

That  here,  like  dumb  Beasts,  yearning  with 
blank  eyes, 

Wringing  each  other's  hands,  pale,  passion- 
ate, 

Full  of  immortal  likeness,  wild  with  thirst 

To  mingle,  yet  we  here  must  stand  asunder, 

Two  human  Shapes,  two  Mansions  built 
apart, 

Two  pale  Men, — and  two  Ghosts  upon  the 
ground  ! 

Tread  back  my  footsteps  with  me  in  thy 
mind  : 

1  have  wander'd  long  and  far,   and  O  I 

have  seen 

Strange  visions  ;  for  my  Soul  resembles  not 
The  miserable  souls  of  common  men — 
Mere   Lamps  to  guide   the   Body   to  the 

board 

And  lustful  bed— say,  rather,  'tis  a  Wind 
Prison'd  in  flesh,  and  shrieking  to  be  free 
To  blow  on  the  high  places  of  the  Lord  ! 
Hither  and  hither  hath  its  pent-up  struggle 
Compelled   my   footsteps — o'er  the  snowy 

Steeps, 
Through  the  green  Valleys  -  into  huts  of 

hinds 

And  palaces  of  princes.     It  hath  raved 
Loud  as  the  wind  among  the  pines  for  rest, 
Answered  by  all  the  winds  of  all  the  world 
Gather' d  like  howling  wolves  beneath  the 

Moon  ; 

And  il^  hath  lain  still  as  the  air  that  broods 
On  meres  Coruisken  on  dead  days  of  frost, 
In  supreme  moments  of  unearthly  bliss, 
Feeling  the  pathos  and  exceeding  peace 
Of  thoughts  as  delicate  and  far  removed 
As  starlight.    But  in  stormy  times  and  calm, 
In  pain  or  pleasure,  came  the  Shadow  too, 
Meeting  the  Soul  in  its  superbest  hour, 
And  making  it  afraid. 

These  twain  have  dwelt 
Together,  haunting  one  another's  bliss, — 


264 


THE  BOOK  OF  ORM. 


The  Wind,  that  would  be  on  the  extremes! 

peaks, 

And  the  strange   Shadow  of  the  prison- 
house, 

Wherein  'tis  pent  so  very  cunningly. 
Nay,  how  they  mock  each  other  !     '  Shade 

accursed, ' 
The  Wind  moans,  '  yet  a  little  while,  and 

thou 

Shalt  perish  with  the  poor  and  mean  abode 
That    casts    thee — follow    and    admonish 

thatt— 

To  me  thine  admonition  promiseth 
The  crumbling  of  the  ruin  chain' d  wherein 
I  cry  for  perfect  freedom.'     Then  methinks 
The  wild  Shade  waves  its  arms  grotesque 

and  says, 
In  dumb  show,  '  Peace,  thou  unsubstantial 

Wind! 

Bred  of  the  peevish  humour  of  the  flesh, 
Born  in  the  body  and  the  cells  o'  the  brain  ; 
With  these  things  shall  thou  perish, — foul 

as  gas 

Thou  senseless  shalt  dissolve  upon  the  air, 
And  none  shall  know  that  thou  hast  ever 

been.' 
Thus  have  they  mock'd  each  other  morn 

and  mirk 
In  speech  not  human.      When  I  lay  at 

night, 

Drunk  with  the  ichor  of  the  form  I  clasp'd, 
How  hath  the  sad  Soul,  mocking  the  brute 

bliss, 
The  radiant  glistening  play  o'  the  sense, 

withdrawn 

Unto  the  innermost  chamber  of  the  brain, 
And  moan'd  in  shame  ;  while  in  the  taper 

light, 
The  Shades,  with  clasping  arms  and  waving 

hair, 
Seem'd  saying,    'Gather  roses  while  thou 

mayst, 

0  royal  purple  Body  doom'd  to  die  ! 

And  hush,  O  Wind,  for  thou  shalt  perish 
too!' 

1  saw  a  Hind  at  sunrise — dumb  he  stood, 
And  saw  the  Dawn  press  with  her  rosy  feet 
The  dewy  sweetness  from  the  fields  of  hay, 
Felt  the  World  brighten — leaves  and  flowers 

and  grass 

Grow  luminous — yet  beside  the  pool   he 
stood, 


Wherein,  in  the  gray  vapour  of  the  marsh, 
His  mottled  oxen  stood  with  large  blank 

eyes 
And  steaming  nostrils  :  and  his  eyes  like 

theirs 

Were  empty,  and  he  humm'd  a  surly  song 
Out  of  a  hollow  heart  akin  to  beast's  : 
Yea,  sun  nor  star  had  little  joy  for  him, 
Nor  tree  nor  flower, — to  him  the  world  was 

all 
Mere  matter  for  a  ploughshare.     On  the 

hill 
Above  him,   with  loose   jerkin  backward 

blown 
By  winds  of  morning,  and  his  white  brow 

bare 

Like  marble,  stood  a  Singer — one  of  those 
Who  write  in  heart's-blood  what  is  blotted 

out 

With  ox-gall  ;^and  his  Soul  was  in  his  eyes 
To  see  the  coming  of  the  beautiful  Day, 
His  lips  hung  heavy  with  beauty,  and  he 

looked 

Down  on  the  surly  clod  among  the  kine, 
And  sent  his  Soul  unto  him  through  his 

eyes, 
Transfiguring  him  with  beauty  and  with 

praise 

Into  the  common  pathos.     Of  such  stuffs 
Is  mankind  shapen,  both,  like  thee    and 

me, 

Wear  westward,  to  the  melancholy  Realm 
Where  all  the  gather'd  Shades  of  all  the 

world 
Lie  as  a  cloud  around  the  feet  of  God. 

This  darkens  all  my  seeking.    O  my  friend  ! 
If  the   whole   world    had  royal  eyes  like 

thine, 

I  were  much  holpen  ;  but  to  look  upon 
Eyes    like    the    ox-herd's,   blank    as  very 

beast's, 

Shoots  sorrow  to  the  very  roots  of  life. 
Aye  !  there  were  hope  indeed  if  each  Man 

seemed 

A  Spirit's  habitation, — but  the  world 
Is  curst  with  these  blank  faces,    still  as 

stone, 
And  darkening  inward.     Have  these  dumb 

things  Souls  ? 

If  they  be  tenantless,  dare  thou  and  I 
Christen  by  so  sublime  a  name  the  Wind 
Bred  in  the  wasting  body  ? 


THE  MAN  AND    THE  SHADOW. 


265 


Yestermorn, 

In  yonder  city  that  afar  away 
Staineth  the    peaceful    blue  with  its  foul 

breath, 

I  passed  into  a  dimly-lighted  hall, 
And  heard  a  lanthorn-jaw'd  Philosopher, 
Clawing  his  straw-like  bunch  of  yellow  hair, 
With  skeletonian  periods  and  a  voice 
Shrill  as  the  grating  of  two  bones.     '  O 

Soul,' 
Quoth  he,  '  O  beauteousness  we  name  the 

Soul, 
Thou  art  the  Flower  of  all  the  life  o'  the 

World, 

And  not  in  every  clod  of  flesh  shoots  forth 
The  perfect  apparition  of  thy  tints 
Immortal !    Flower  and  scented  bloom  of 

things 

Thou  growest  on  no  dunghill  in  the  sun  ! ' 
A    flower,   a  flower    immortal?      How  I 

laugh' d ! 

*+-\  Clip  me  the  lily  from  its  secret  roots, 
r- 1  And  farewell  all  the  wonder  of  the  flower  ! 

|^   ^ 

That  self-same  day,  in  that  same  city  of 

souls, 

I  saw  the  King,  a  man  of  flesh  and  blood, 
In  gorgeous  raiment.     O  the  little  eyes 
Glimmering  underneath  the  golden  crown, 
While  sitting  on  a  throne  in  open  court, 
Fountains  of  perfume  sprinkling  him  with 

spray, 
He  heard  the  gray  men  of  his  kingdom 

speak 

Of  mighty  public  matters  solemnly, 
And  nodding  grave  approval,  all  the  while 
Crack' d  filberts  like  a   Monkey  ;    yet    at 

times 

His  shadow,  and  the  shadow  of  his  throne, 
Falling  against  a  grand  sarcophagus 
That  filled  one  corner  of  the  fountain 'd 

court, 

Awoke  a  nameless  trouble,  and  the  more 
The  sun  shone,  deeper  on  the  tomb  close 

by 
The  double  shadow  linger' d.     Then  me- 

thought 

I  was  transported  to  a  marvellous  land, 
A  mighty  forest  cf  primaeval  growth 
Brooding  in  its  own  darkness — underwood 
Breast-deep,  and  swarming  thick  with  mon- 
strous shapes ; 
And  from  a  bough  above  me,  by  his  tail 


A  Man-beast  swung  and  glimmer'd  down 

at  me 

With  little  eyes  and  shining  ivory  teeth. 
Laugh  with  me  !  Brute-beast  and  the  small- 
eyed  King 
Seem'd  brethren — face,   eyes,   mouth,  and 

lips  the  same — 

Only  the  brute-beast  was  the  happier, 
Since  never  nameless  trouble  filled  his  eyes, 
Because  his  ghost   upon   the  glimmering 

grass 
Beneath  him  quivered,    while    he    poised 

above 

With  philosophic  swing  by  claws  and  tail. 
1 0  Soul  the  Flower  of  all  the  life  o'  the 

World, 
O  perfect  Flower  and  scented  bloom  of 

things  I ' 

O  birth  betoken' d  in  that  windy  hour, 
When,  sloughing  off  the  brute,  we  stand 

and  groan, 
First  frighten' d  by  the  Shadow   that  has 

chased 
Our  changes  up  through  all  the  grooves  of 

Time! 

Lift  up  thine  eyes,  old  man,  and  look  on 

me : 
Like  thee,  a  dark  point  in  the  scheme  of 

things, 

Where  the  dumb  Spirit  that  pervadeth  all- 
Grass,  trees,  beasts,  man — and  lives  and 

grows  in  all — 

Pauses  upon  itself,  and  awe-struck  feels 
The  shadow  of  the  next  and  imminent 
Transfiguration.     So,  a  living  Man  ! 
That  entity  within  whose  brooding  brain 
Knowledge  begins  and  ends — that  point  in 

time 
When  Time  becomes  the  Shadow   of   a 

Dial,— 

That  dreadful  living  and  corporeal  Hour, 
Who,  wafted  by  an  unseen  Hand  apart 
From  the  wild  rush  of  temporal  things  that 

pass, 

Pauses  and  listens, — listening  sees  his  face 
Glassed  in  still  waters  of  Eternity, — • 
Gazes  in  awe  at  his  own  loveliness, 
And  fears  it, — glanceth  with  affrighted  eyes 
Backward  and  forward,   and    beholds  all 

dark, 
Alike    the    place  whence  he    unconscious 

came, 


266 


THE  BOOK    Of  ORAL 


And  that  to  which   he  conscious  drifteth 

on, — 

Yet  seeth  before  him,  wheresoe'er  he  turn, 
The  Shadow  of  himself,  presaging  doom. 


THE  RAINBOW. 

THE  OLD  MAN  SPEAKS. 

MINE  eyes  are  dim.    Where  am  I  ?    Is  this 

Snow 

Falling  in  the  cold  air  ?    All  darkeneth, — 
As  if  between  me  and  the  light  there  stood 
Some  shape  that  lived.    My  God,  is  this  the 
end? 

ORM. 

Not  yet!  not  yet!    Look  up  !    Thoulivest 

yet! 
"I'is  but  a  little  faintness,  and  will  pass. 

OLD   MAN. 

Pass?  All  things  pass.  The  light,  the 
morning  dew, 

The  power  that  plotted  and  the  foot  that 
clomb  ; 

And  delicate  bloom  of  life  upon  the  flesh 

Fading  like  peach-bloom  'neath  a  finger- 
press. 

O  God,  to  blossom  like  a  flower  in  a  day. 

Then  wear  a  winter  in  slow  withering.  .  .  . 

Why  not  with  sun-flash,  Lord,  or  bolt  of 
fire?  .  .  . 

Where  am  I  ? 

ORM. 

On  the  lonely  heights  of  Earth  ; 
Beneath  thee  lies  the  Ocean,  and  above 

thee 
The  Hills  stand  silent  in  the  setting  Sun. 

OLD   MAN. 

What  forms  are  these  that  come  and  change 
and  go  ? 

ORM. 

Desolate  Shadows  of  the  gathering  Rain. 

OLD  MAN. 

What  sound  is  that  I  hear  ? 

ORM. 

The  homeless  Wind 

Shivering  behind  the  Shadows  as  they  glide, 
And  moaning. 


- 


OLD  MAN. 

Ah! 
ORM. 

Some  phantom  of  the  brain 
Appalleth  thee  !     Cling  to  me  !     Courage  ! 


OLD   MAN. 

Dost  thou  not  hear  ? 


Hark! 


ORM. 

What? 

OLD  MAN. 

Voices  of  the  shapes 
That  yonder,  with  their  silvern  robes  wind- 

blown, 

All  faint  and  shadowless  against  the  light, 
Beckon  me.     Hush  !     They  sing  a  lullaby  ! 
They  are  the  spirits  that  so  long  ago 
Sung  round  my  cradle,  —  and  they  sing  the 

same,  — 
Though  I  am  grown  the  ghosts  of  that  fair 

time. 

No  !  faces  !  These  are  faces  I  remember  ! 
A  fair  face  that,  sweet  in  its  golden  hair  — 
And  lower,  see  !  a  little  pale-faced  child's, 
Sad  as  a  star.  '  Father  !  '  A  voice  cried 

1  Father  !  ' 
Lift    me    up  !      Look  !      How    they    are 

gathering  ! 
All  sing!    All  beckon! 

ORM. 

.  .  .  'Tis  the  end  indeed. 
Within  his  breast    the    life-blood  of   the 

heart 
Swells  like  a  breaking  wave,  as,   clinging 

round  me, 

He  yearneth,  fascinated  yet  afraid, 
With  wild  dim  eyes  that  look  on  vacancy  ! 

OLD  MAN. 

What  gleameth  yonder  in  the  brightening 


air? 


ORM. 


The  Spirit  of  the  Rainbow  hovering  faint 
Amid  the  wind-blown  shadows  of  the  Rain. 

OLD  MAN. 

Shadows  !    I  see  them— all  the  Shadows- 
see  ! 
Uprising  from  the  wild  green  sea  of  graves 


THE  MAN  AND    THE   SHADOW. 


267 


That  beats  forlorn   about   the    shores    of 

earth. 
Shadows— behold  them  ! — how  they  gather 

and  gather, 

More  and  yet  more,  darker  and  darker  yet  ; 
Drifting  with  a  low  moan  of  mystery 
Upward,  still  upward,  till  they  almost  touch 
The  bright  dim  edge  of  the  Bow,  but  there 

they  pause, 
Struggling  in  vain  against  a  breath  from 

heaven, 
And  blacken.     Hark  !  their  sound  is  like  a 

Sea! 

Above  them,  with  how  dim  a  light  divine, 
Burneth  the  Bow, — and  lo  !  it  is  a  Bridge, 
Dim,  many-colour'd,  strangely  brightening, 
Whereon,  all  faint  and  fair  and  shadowless, 
Spirits  like  those,  with  faces  I  remember, 
With  a  low  sound   like  the  soft  rain  in 

spring, 

With  a  faint  echo  of  the  cradle  song, 
Coming  and  going,  beckon  me  !     I  come  ! 
Who  holds  me  ?    Touch  me  not.     O  help  ! 

I  am  called  ! 
Ah !  [Dies. 

ORM. 
Gone  !      Dead  !      Something  very  cold 

past  by 
And  touched  my  cheek  like  breath  ;  even 

then,  O  God, 
My  comrade  heard    Thy    summons,    and 

behold  ! 

Here  lieth,  void  and  cold  and  tenantless, 
His  feeble  habitation.     Poor  gray  hairs, 
Thin  with  long  blowing  in  the  windy  cold, 
At  last  ye  sadden  ruin  !  poor  sweet  lips, 
Ye  are  dewless,  ye  are  silent !  poor  worn 

heart, 
No  more  shalt  thou,  like  to  a  worn-out 

watch, 
Tick  feebly  out  the  time  ! 

O  Shadow  sad, 

Monitor,  haunter,  waiter  till  the  end, 
Brother  of  that  which  darkeneth  at  my  feet, 
Hast  thou  too  fled,  and  dost  thou  follow 

still 
The  Spirit's  quest  divine  ?     Nay,  thou  dark 

Ghost ! 
Thy    work    is    done    for    ever — thou    art 

doom'd — 
A  breath   from  heaven  holds  thee  to  the 

ground  ; 


And  here  unto  the  ruin  thou  art  chained, 
Moveless,  and  dark,  no  more  the  ghost  of 

life, 
But  dead,  the  Shadow  of  a  thing  of  stone. 

Thus  far,    no    further,   Shadow ! — but,    O 

brother, 
O  Spirit,  where  art  thoul    From  what  far 

height 

Up  yonder,  pausing  for  a  moment's  space, 
Lookest  thou  back  thy  blessing  ?  Art  thou 

free? 

Dost  thou  still  hunger  upward  seeking  rest, 
Because  some  new  horizon,  strange  as  ours, 
Shuts  out  the  prospect  of  the  place  of 

peace  ? 

Art  thou  a  wave  that,  having  broken  once, 
Gatherest  up  a  glorious  crest  once  more, 
And  glimmerest    onward,— but    to    break 

again  ; 
Or  dost  thou  smooth  thyself    to    perfect 

peace 
In  tranquil  sight  of  some  Eternal  Shore  ? 

From  the  still  region  whither  thou  hast 

fled, 

No  answer  cometh ;  but  with  dewy  wings 
Brightening  before  it  dieth,  how  divine 
Burneth  the  Rainbow,  at  its  earthliest  edge 
Now  fading  like  a  flower  !     Is  it  indeed 
A  Bridge  whereon  fair  Spirits  come  and  go  ? 
O  Brother,  didst  thou  glide  to  peace  that 

way  ? 

Silent — all  silent — dimmer,  dimmer  yet, 
Hue    by    hue    dying,    creeping    back    to 

heaven— 

O  let  me  too  pass  by  it  up  to  God  ! 
Too  late — it  fadeth,  faint  and  far  away  ! 

The  Shadows  gather  round  me — from  the 

ground 

My  dark  familiar  looketh  silently. 
O  Shadows,  be  at  peace,  for  ye  shall  rest, 
Yea,  surely  ye  shall  cease  ;  for  now,  as  ever. 
Out  of  your  cloudy  being  springs  serene 
The  Bow  of  Mystery  that  spans  the  globe  ! 

£  X 

The  beautiful  Bow  of  thoughts  ineffable,         a 
Last  consequence  of  this  fair  cloud  of  flesh  \ 
The  dim  miraculous  Iris  of  sweet  Dream  ! 
Rainbow  of  promise  !     Colour,  Light,  and 
SouU 


268 


THE  BOOK  OF  ORM. 


That  comes,  dies,  comes  again,  and  ever 

draws 
Its  strangest  source  from  tears — that  lives, 

that  dies — 
That    is,    is    not — now    here,   now    faded 

wholly — 

Ever  assuring,  ever  blessing  us, 
Ever  eluding,  ever  beckoning  ; 
Born  of  our  essence,  yet  more  strange  than 

we, 

As  human,  yet  more  beautiful  tenfold, — 
Rising  in  earth  out  of  our  cloudy  being, 
Touching  forlornest  places  with  its  tints, 
Strewing  the  Sea  with  opal,  scattering 

roses 

Across  the  hollow  pathways  of  the  Wind, 
Fringing  the  clouds  with  flowers  of  crimson 

fire, 
And  melting,   melting   (whither  our  wild 

eyes 

Follow  imploring,  whither  our  weak  feet 
Totter  for  ever),  melting  far  away, 
Yonder  !  upon  the  dimmest  peak  of  Heaven ! 


III. 
SONGS  OF  CORRUPTION. 

Songs  of  Corruption,  woven  thus, 
With  tender  thoughts  and  tremulous, 
Sitting  with  a  solemn  face 
In  an  island  burying-place, 
While  weary  waves  broke  sad  and  slow 
O'er  weedy  wastes  of  sand  below, 
And  stretch'd  on  every  side  of  me 
The  rainy  grief  of  the  gray  Sea. 


PHANTASY. 

IF  thou  art  an  Angel, 

Who  hath  seen  thee, 
O  Phantasy,  brooding 
Over  my  pale  wife's  sleeping? 

In  the  darkness 

I  am  listening 
For  the  rustle  of  thy  robe  ; 
Would  I  might  feel  thee  breathing, 
Would  I  might  hear  thee  speaking, 
Would  I  might  only  touch  thee 

By  the  hand ! 

She  is  very  cold, 
My  wife  is  very  cold, 


Her  eyes  are  withered, 
Her  breath  is  dried  like  dew  ; — 
The  sound  of  my  weeping 
Disturbeth  her  not ; 
Thy  shadow,  O  Phantasy, 
Lieth  like  moonlight 
Upon  her  features, 
And  the  lines  of  her  mouth 
Are  very  sweet. 

In  the  night 
I  heard  my  pale  wife  moaning, 

Yet  did  not  know 

What  made  her  afraid. 

My  pale  wife  said, 

'  I  am  very  cold,' 
And  shrank  away  from  thee, 
Though  I  saw  thee  not ; 
And  she  kissed  me  and  went  to  sleep, 
And  gave  a  little  start  upon  my  arm 
When  on  her  living  lips 
Thy  freezing  finger  was  laid. 

What  art  thou— 

Art  thou  God's  Angel  ? 

Or  art  thou  only 

The  chilly  night-wind, 

Stealing  downward 
From  the  regions  where  the  sun 
Dwelleth  alone  with  his  shadow 

On  a  waste  of  snow  ? 
Art  thou  the  water  or  earth  ? 
Or  art  thou  the  fatal  air  ? 

Or  art  thou  only 

An  apparition 

Made  by  the  mist 
Of  mine  own  eyes  weeping  ? 

She  is  very  cold, 

My  wife  is  very  cold  ! 

I  will  kiss  her, 
And  the  silver-haired  mother  will  kiss 

her, 

And  the  little  children  will  kiss  her  ; 
And  then  we  will  wrap  her  warm, 
And  hide  her  in  a  hollow  space  ; 
And  the  house  will  be  empty 

Of  thee,  O  Phantasy, 
Cast  on  the  unhappy  household 

By  the  strange  white  clay. 

Much  I  marvel,  O  Phantasy, 
That  one  so  gentle, 


SONGS   OF  CORRUPTION. 


269 


So  sweet,  when  living, 
Should  cast  a  Shadow  as  vast  as  thine  ; 

For,  lo  !  thou  loomest 

Upward  and  heavenward, 

Hiding  the  sunlight 

Blackening  the  snow, 
And  the  pointing  of  thy  finger 

Fadeth  far  away 
1  On  the  sunset-tinged  edges, 
Where  Man's  company  ends, 
And  God's  loneliness  begins. 


THE  DREAM  OF  THE  WORLD 
WITHOUT  DEATH. 

Now,  sitting  by  her  side,  worn  out  with 

weeping, 

Behold,  I  fell  to  sleep,  and  had  a  vision, 
Wherein  I  heard  a  wondrous  Voice  in- 
toning : 

Crying  aloud,  '  The  Master  on  His  throne 
Openeth  now  the  seventh  seal  of  wonder, 
And  beckoneth  back  the  angel  men  name 
Death. 

And  at  His  feet  the  mighty  Angel  kneeleth, 
Breathing  not  ;   and  the  Lord  doth  look 

upon  him, 
Saying,    '  Thy  wanderings    on  earth    are 

ended.' 

And  lo  !  the  mighty  Shadow  sitteth  idle 
Even  at  the  silver  gates  of  heaven, 
Drowsily  looking  in  on  quiet  waters, 
And  puts  his  silence  among  men  no  longer. 

The  world  was  very  quiet.     Men  in  traffic 
Cast  looks  over    their    shoulders  ;    pallid 

seamen 
Shivered  to  walk  upon  the  decks  alone ; 

And  women  barred  their  doors  with  bars  of 
iron, 

In  the  silence  of  the  night ;  and  at  the  sun- 
rise 

Trembled  behind  the  husbandmen  afield. 

I  could  not  see  a  kirkyard  near  or  far  ; 
I  thirsted  for  a  green  grave,  and  my  vision 
Was  weary  for  the  white  gleam  of  a  tomb- 
stone. 


But  hearkening  dumbly,  ever  and  anon 
I  heard  a  cry  out  of  a  human  dwelling, 
And  felt  the  cold  wind  of  a  lost  one's  going. 

One  struck  a  brother  fiercely,  and  he  fell, 
And  faded  in  a  darkness  ;  and  that  other 
Tore  his  hair,  and  was  afraid,  and  could 
not  perish. 

One  struck  his  aged  mother  on  the  mouth, 
And  she  vanished  with  a  gray  grief  from  his 

hearthstone. 
One  melted  from  her  bairn,  and  on  the 

ground 

With  sweet  unconscious  eyes  the  bairn  lay 
smiling. 

And  many  made  a  weeping  among  moun- 
tains, 

And  hid  themselves  in  caverns,  and  were 
drunken. 

I  heard  a  voice  from  out  the  beauteous 

earth, 
Whose  side  rolled   up    from  winter  into 

summer, 
Crying,  '  I  am  grievous  for  my  children.' 

I  heard  a  voice  from  out  the  hoary  ocean, 
Crying,   '  Burial  in  the  breast  of  me  were 

better, 
Yea,   burial  in  the  salt  flags    and    green 

crystals.' 

I  heard  a  voice  from  out  the  hollow  ether, 
Saying,    '  The  thing  ye  cursed  hath  been 

abolished — 
Corruption,  and  decay,  and  dissolution  ! ' 

And  the  world  shrieked,  and  the  summer- 
time was  bitter, 

And  men  and  women  feared  the  air  behind 
them  ; 

And  for  lack  of  its  green  graves  the  world 
was  hateful. 

Now  at  the  bottom  of  a  snowy  mountain 
I  came  upon  a  woman  thin  with  sorrow, 
Whose  voice  was  like  the  crying  of  a  sea- 
gull. 

Saying,  '  O  Angel  of  the  Lord,  come  hither, 
And  bring  me  him  I  seek  for  on  thy  bosom, 
That  I  may  close  his  eyelids  and  embrace 
him. 


270 


THE   BOOK  OF  ORM. 


el  curse  thee  that  I  cannot  look  upon  him  ! 
I  curse  thee  that  I  know  not  he  is  sleeping  ! 
Yet  know  that  he  has  vanished  upon  God  ! 

'  I  laid  my  little  girl  upon  a  wood-bier, 
And  very  sweet  she  seemed,  and  near  unto 

me  ; 
And  slipping  flowers  into  her  shroud  was 

comfort. 

'  I  put  my  silver  mother  in  the  darkness, 
And  kissed  her,  and  was  solaced  by  her 

kisses, 
And  set  a  stone,  to  mark  the  place,  above 

her. 

•And  green,  green  were  their  quiet  sleeping- 
places, 

So  green  that  it  was  pleasant  to  remember 
That  I  and  my  tall  man  would  sleep  beside 
them. 

'  The  closing  of  dead  eyelids  is  not  dreadful, 
For  comfort  comes  upon  us  when  we  close 

them, 
And    tears    fall,    and    our   sorrow   grows 

familiar  ; 

'And  we  can  sit  above  them  where  they 

slumber, 

And  spin  a  dreamy  pain  into  a  sweetness, 
And  know  indeed  that  we  are  very  near 

them. 

'  But  to  reach  out  empty  arms  is  surely 
dreadful, 

And  to  feel  the  hollow  empty  world  is 
awful, 

And  bitter  grow  the  silence  and  the  dis- 
tance. 

'There  is  no  space  for  grieving    or    for 

weeping ; 

No  touch,  no  cold,  no  agony  to  strive  with, 
And  nothing  but  a  horror  and  a  blankness ! ' 

Now  behold  I  saw  a  woman  in  a  mud-hut 
Raking  the  white  spent  embers  with  her 

fingers, 
And  fouling  her  bright  hair  with  the  white 

ashes, 


Her  mouth  was  very  bitter  with  the  ashes  ; 
Her  eyes  with  dust  were  blinded  ;  and  her 

sorrow 
Sobbed  in  the  throat  of  her  like  gurgling 

water. 

And  all  around  the   voiceless    hills    were 

hoary, 
But   red  light  scorched  their  edges  ;   and 

above  her 
There  was  a  soundless  trouble  of  the 

vapours. 

'  Whither,  and  O  whither,'  said  the  woman, 
1  O  Spirit  of  the  Lord,  hast  Thou  conveyed 

them, 
My  little  ones,  my  little  son  and  daughter  ? 

'  For,    lo !    we    wandered    forth    at    early 

morning, 
And  winds  were  blowing  round  us,  and 

their  mouths 
Blew  rose-buds  to  the  rose-buds,  and  their 

eyes 

'  Looked  violets  at  the  violets,  and  their 

hair 
Made  sunshine  in  the  sunshine,  and  their 

passing 
Left  a  pleasure  in  the  dewy  leaves  behind 

them; 

'And  suddenly  my  little  son  looked  up- 
ward, 

And  his  eyes  were  dried  like  dew-drops  ; 
and  his  going 

Was  like  a  blow  of  fire  upon  my  face. 

•And  my  little  son  was  gone.     My  little 

daughter 
Looked  round  me  for  him,  clinging  to  my 

vesture  ; 
But  the  Lord  had  drawn  him  from  me,  and 

I  knew  it 

'  By  the  sign  He  gives  the  stricken,  that  the 

lost  one 
Lingers  nowhere  on  the  earth,  on  hill  or 

valley, 
Neither  underneath   the  grasses    nor    the 

tree-roots, 


SONGS  OF  CORRUPTION. 


271 


'  And  my  shriek  was  like  the  splitting  of  an 

ice-reef, 
And   I  sank  among  my  hair,  and  all  my 

palm 
Was  moist  and  warm  where  the  little  hand 

had  filled  it. 

'  Then  I  fled  and  sought  him  wildly,  hither 

and  thither — 
Though  I  knew  that  he  was  stricken  from 

me  wholly 
By    the    token   that    the  Spirit  gives   the 

stricken. 

'  I  sought  him  in  the  sunlight  and  the  star- 
light, 

I  sought  him  in  great  forests,  and  in  waters 
Where  I  saw  mine  own  pale  image  looking 
at  me. 

'  And   I   forgot    my    little    bright  -  haired 

daughte., 
Though  her  voice  was  like  a  wild-bird's  far 

behind  me, 
Till  the  voice  ceased,  and  the  universe  was 

silent. 

'And  stilly,  in  the  starlight,  came  I  back- 
ward 

To  the  forest  where  I  missed  him  ;  and  no 
voices 

Brake  the  stillness  as  I  stooped  down  in  the 
starlight, 

'  And  saw  two  little  shoes  filled  up  with  dew, 
And  no  mark  of  little  footsteps  any  farther, 
And  knew  my  little  daughter  had    gone 
also.' 

But  beasts   died ;    yea,    the  cattle  in  the 

yoke, 
The  milk-cow  in  the  meadow,  and  the 

sheep, 
And  the  dog  upon  the  doorstep  :  and  men 

envied. 

And  birds  died  ;  yea,  the  eagle  at  the  sun- 
gate, 

The  swan  upon  the  waters,  and  the  farm- 
fowl, 

And  the  swallows  on  the  housetops  :  and 
men  envied. 


And  reptiles  ;  yea,  the  toad  upon  the  road- 
side, 

The  slimy,  speckled  snake  among  the  grass, 
The  lizard  on  the  ruin  :  and  men  envied. 

The  dog  in  lonely  places  cried  not  over 
The  body  of  his   master ;   but  it  missed 

him, 
And  whined  into  the  air,  and  died,  and 

rotted. 

The  traveller's  horse  lay  swollen    in  the 

pathway, 
And  the  blue  fly  fed  upon  it  ;  but  no 

traveller 
Was  there ;  nay,  not  his  footprint  on  the 

ground. 

The  cat  mewed  in  the  midnight,  and  the 

blind 
Gave  a  rustle,  and  the  lamp  burnt  blue  and 

faint, 
And  the  father's  bed  was  empty  in  the 

morning. 

The  mother  fell  to  sleep  beside  the  cradle, 
Rocking  it,  while  she  slumbered,  with  htr 

foot, 
And  wakened, — and  the  cradle  there  was 

empty. 

I    saw    a   two-years'   child,    and    he    was 

playing  ; 
And  he  found  a  dead  white  bird  upon  the 

doorway, 
And  laughed,  and  ran  to  show  it  to  his 

mother. 

The  mother  moaned,  and  clutched  him,  and 

was  bitter, 
And  flung  the  dead  white  bird  across  the 

threshold  ; 
And  another  white  bird  flitted  round  and 

round  it, 

And  uttered  a  sharp  cry,  and  twittered  and 

twittered, 
And  lit  beside  its  dead  mate,  and  grew 

busy, 
Strewing  it  over  with  green  leaves  and 

yellow. 

So  far,  so  far  to  seek  for  were  the  limits. 


272 


THh    BOOK  OF   ORM. 


Of   affliction;    and  men's  terror  grew    a 

homeless 
Terror,  yea,  and  a  fatal  sense  of  blankness. 

There  was  no  little  token  of  distraction, 
There  was  no  visible  presence  of  bereave- 
ment, 

Such  as  the  mourner  easeth  out  his  heart 
on. 

There  was  no  comfort  in  the  slow  farewell, 
Nor  gentle  shutting  of  beloved  eyes, 
Nor   beautiful    broodings    over    sleeping 
features. 

There  were  no  kisses  on  familiar  faces, 
No  weaving  of  white  grave-clothes,  no  last 

pondering 
Over  the  still  wax  cheeks  and  folded  fingers. 

There  was  no  putting  tokens  under  pillows, 
There  was  no  dreadful  beauty  slowly  fading, 
Fading  like  moonlight  softly  into  darkness. 

There  were  no  churchyard  paths  to  walk  on, 

thinking 

How  near  the  well-beloved  ones  are  lying. 
There  were  no  sweet  green  graves  to  sit  and 

muse  on, 

Till  grief  should  grow  a  summer  meditation, 
The  shadow  of  the  passing  of  an  angel, 
And  slepping  should  seem  easy,  and  not 
cruel. 

Nothing  but  wondrous  parting  and  a  blank- 
ness. 

But  I  awoke,   and,   lo  !  the  burthen  was 

uplifted, 
And  I  prayed  within  the  chamber  where  she 

slumbered, 
And  my  tears  flowed  fast  and  free,  but  were 

not  bitter. 

I  eased  my  heart  three  days  by  watching 

near  her, 
And  made  her  pillow  sweet  with  scent  and 

flowers, 
And  could  bear  at  last  to  put  her  in  the 

darkness. 

And   I  heard  the  kirk-bells   ringing  very 
slowly, 


And  the  priests  were  in  their  vestments,  and 

the  earth 
Dripped  awful  on  the  hard  wood,   yet  I 

bore  it. 

And  I  cried,  '  O  unseen  Sender  of  Corrup 

tion, 

I  bless  Thee  for  the  wonder  of  Thy  mercy, 
Which    softeneth     the     mystery    and    the 

parting. 

'  I  bless  Thee  for  the  change  and  for  the 
comfort, 

The  bloomless  face,  shut  eyes,  and  waxen 
fingers, — 

For  Sleeping,  and  for  Silence,  and  Corrup- 
tion.' 

in. 
SOUL  AND  FLESH. 

MY  Soul,  thou  art  wed 
To  a  perishable  thing, 
But  death  from  thy  strange  mate 
Shall  sever  thee  full  soon, 
If  thou  wilt  reap  wings 
Take  all  the  Flesh  can  give  : 

The  touch  of  the  smelling  dead, 
The  kiss  of  the  maiden's  mouth, 
The  sorrow,  the  hope,  the  fear, 
That  floweth  along  the  veins : 
Take  all,  nor  be  afraid  ; 
Cling  close  to  thy  mortal  Mate  ! 

So  shall  thou  duly  wring 

Out  of  thy  long  embrace 

The  hunger  and  thirst  whereof 

The  Master  maketh  thee  wings, — 

The  beautiful,  wondrous  yearning, 

The  mighty  thirst  to  endure. 

Be  not  afraid,  my  Soul, 
To  leave  thy  Mate  at  last, 
Thou  ye  shall  learn  in  time 
To  love  each  other  well ; 
But  put  her  gently  down 
In  the  earth  beneath  thy  feet. 

And  dry  thine  eyes  and  hasten 
To  the  imperishable  springs  ; 
And  it  shall  be  well  for  thee 
In  the  beautiful  Master's  sight, 
If  it  be  found  in  the  end 
Thou  hast  used  her  tenderly. 


THE  SOUL   AND    THE   DWELLING. 


273 


IV. 

THE  SOUL  AND 
DWELLING. 


THE 


A  House  miraculous  of  breath 
The  royal  Soul  inhabiteth. 
Alone  therein  for  evermore, 
It  seeks  in  vain  to  pass  the  door  ; 
But  through  the  windows  of  the  eyne 
Signalleth  to  its  kin  divine.  .  .  . 
This  is  a  song  Orm  sang  of  old 
To  Oona  with  the  locks  of  gold. 

COME  to  me  !  clasp  me  ! 
Spirit  to  spirit  ! 
Bosom  to  bosom  ! 
Tenderly,  clingingly, 
Mingle  to  one  !  .  .  . 

Now,  from  my  kisses 
Withdrawing,  and  blushing, 
Why  dost  thou  gaze  on  me  ? 
Why  dost  thou  weep  ? 
Why  dost  thou  cling  to  me, 
Imploring,  adoring? 
What  are  those  meanings 
That  flash  from  thine  eyes  ? 

Pitiful  !  pitiful  ! 
Now  I  conceive  thee  !  — 
Yea,  it  were  easier 
Striking  two  swords, 
To  weld  them  together, 
Than  spirit  with  spirit 
To  mingle,  though  rapture 

Be  perfect  as  this. 
Shut  in  a  tremulous 
Prison,  each  spirit 
Hungers  and  yearns  — 
Never,  ah  never, 
Beloved,  beloved, 
Have  these  eyes  look'd  on 

The  face  of  thy  Soul. 

Ours  are  two  dwellings, 
Wondrously  beautiful, 
Made  in  the  darkness 

Of  soft-tinted  flesh  : 
In  the  one  dwelling, 
Prison'd  I  dwell, 
And  lo  !  from  the  other 

Thou  beckonest  me  1 
I  am  a  Soul  ! 


Thou  art  a  Soul ! 
These  are  our  dwellings  ! 
O  to  be  free  ! 

Beauteous,  beloved, 
Is  thy  dear  dwelling ; 
All  o'er  it  blowing 
The  roses  of  dawn — 
Bright  is  the  portal, 
The  dwelling  is  scented 

Within  and  without ; 
Strange  are  the  windows, 
So  clouded  with  azure, 
The  faces  are  hidden 

That  look  from  within. 

Now  I  approach  thee, 
Sweetness  and  odour 
Tremble  upon  me — 
Wild  is  the  rapture  ! 
Thick  is  the  perfume  ! 
Sweet  bursts  of  music 

Thrill  from  within  ! 
Closer,  yet  closer ! 
Bosom  to  bosom ! 
Tenderly,  clingingly, 

Mingle  to  one.  .  .  . 
Ah  !  but  what  faces 

Are  those  that  look  forth  !  .  .  . 

Faces?    What  faces?    As  I  speak  they  die 
And  all  my  gaze  is  empty  as  of  old. 
O  love  !  the  world  was  fair,  and  everywhere 
Rose  wondrous  human  dwellings  like  mine 

own, 
And  many  of  these  were  foul  and  dark  with 

dust, 

Haunted  by  things  obscene,  not  beautiful, 
But  most  were  very  royal,  meet  to  serve 
Angels  for  habitation.     All  alone 
Brooded  my  Soul  by  a  mysterious  fire 
Dim-burning,  never-dying,  from  the  first 
Lit  in  the  place  by  God  ;  the  winds  and 

rains 
Struck  on  the  abode  and  spared  it ;  day  and 

night 

Above  it  came  and  went ;  and  in  the  night 
My  Soul  gazed  from  the  threshold  silently, 
And  saw  the  congregated  lamps  that  swung 
Above  it  in  the  dark  and  dreamy  blue  ; 
And  in  the  day  my  Soul  gazed  on  the  earth, 
And  sought  the  dwellings  there  for 

and  lo ! 

T 


274 


THE  BOOK  OF  ORM. 


None  answer' d  ;  for  the  Souls  inhabitant 
Drew  coldly  back  and  darken'd  ;  and  I  said, 
'  In  all  the  habitations  I  behold, 
Some  old,   some  young,    some    fair,   and 

some  not  fair, 
There  dwells  no  Soul  I  know.'     But  as  I 

spake, 

I  saw  beside  me  in  a  dreamy  light 
Thy  habitation,  so  serene  and  fair, 
So  stately  in  a  rosy  dawn  of  day, 
That  all  my  Soul  look'd  forth  and  cried, 

•  Behold, 
The  sweetest  dwelling  in  the  whole  wide 

world  ! ' 
And  thought  not  of  the  inmate,  but  gazed 

on, 

Lingeringly,  hushfully  ;  for  as  I  gazed 
Something  came  glistening  up  into  thine 

eyes, 
And  beckon'd,   and  a  murmur  from  the 

portal, 

A  murmur  and  a  perfume,  floated  hither, 
Thrill' d  through  my  dwelling,  making  every 

chamber 

Tremble  with  mystical, 
Dazzling  desire ! 

.  .  .  Come  to  me  !  close  to  me  ! 
Bosom  to  bosom ! 
Tenderly,  clingingly, 

Mingle  to  one ! 
Wildly  within  me 
Some  eager  inmate 
Rushes  and  trembles, 
Peers  from  the  eyes 
And  calls  in  the  ears, 
Yearns  to  thee,  cries  to  thee  ! 
Claiming  old  kinship 
In  lives  far  removed  !  .  . 
Vainly,  ah  vainly ! 
Pent  in  its  prison 
Must  each  miraculous 

Spirit  remain, — 
Yet  inarticulate, 
Striving  to  language 
Music  and  memory, 

Rapture  and  dream ! 

Rapture  and  dream  !     Beloved  one,  in  vain 

My  spirit  seeks  for  utterance.     Alas, 

Not  yet  shall  there  be  speech.     Not  yet, 

not  yet, 
One  dweller  in  a  mortal  tenement 


Can  know  what  secret  faces  hide  away 
Within    the    neighbouring    dwelling.     Ah 

beloved, 

The  mystery,  the  mystery  !     We  cry 
For  God's  face,    who  have  never  looked 

upon 

The  poorest  Soul's  face  in  the  wonderful 
Soul-haunted  world.     A  spirit  once  there 

dwelt 
Beside  me,    close    as    thou — two  wedded 

souls, 
We  mingled — flesh  was  mixed  with  flesh — 

we  knew 

All  joys,  all  unreserves  of  mingled  life — 
Yea,  not  a  sunbeam  filled  the  house  of  one 
But  touched  the  other's  threshold.     Hear 

me  swear 
I   never  knew  that  Soul !    All  touch,  all 

sound, 

All  light  was  insufficient.     The  Soul,  pent 
In  its  strange  chambers,  cried  to  mine  in 

vain — 

We  saw  each  other  not :  but  oftentimes 
When   I  was    glad,    the  windows  of  my 

neighbour 

Were  dark  and  drawn,  as  for  a  funeral ; 
And  sometimes,  when,  most  weary  of  the 

world, 

My  Soul  was  looking  forth  at  dead  of  night, 
I  saw  the  neighbouring  dwelling  brightly 

lit, 

The  happy  windows  flooded  full  of  light, 
As  if  a  feast  were  being  held  within. 
Yet  were    there    passing  flashes,   random 

gleams, 

Low  sounds,  from  the  inhabitant  divine 
I  knew  not ;  and  I  shrunk  from  some  of 

these 

In  a  mysterious  pain.     At  last,  Beloved, 
The  frail  fair  mansion   where  thr.t  spirit 

dwelt 

Totter' d  and  trembled,  through  the  won- 
drous flesh 
A  dim  sick  glimmer  from  the  fire  within 

rew  fainter,  fainter.     '  I  am  going  away,' 
The  Spirit  seemed  to  cry  ;  and  as  it  cried, 
Stood  still  and  dim  and  very  beautiful 
Up    in  the  windows  of   the    eyes — there 

linger'd, 

First  seen,  last  seen,  a  moment,  silently 
So  different,  more  beautiful  tenfold 
Than  all  that   I  had  dreamed— I  sobbed 
aloud 


THE  SOUL   AND    THE   DWELLING. 


275 


1  Stay  !  stay  1 '  but  at  the  one  despairing 
word 

The  spirit  faded,  from  the  hearth  within 

The  dim  fire  died  with  one  last  quivering 
gleam — 

The  house  became  a  ruin  ;  and  I  moaned 

'  God  help  me  !  'twas  herself  that  look'd  at 
me ! 

First  seen  !  I  never  knew  her  face  be- 
fore !  .  . 

Too  late  !  too  late  !  too  late  !  ' 


.  .  .  Yea,  from  my  forehead 
Kiss  the  dark  fantasy  ! 
Tenderly,  clingingly, 

Mingle  to  one  ! 
Is  not  this  language? 
Music  and  memory, 

Rapture  and  dream  ? — 
O  in  the  dewy-bright 

Day-dawn  of  love, 
Is  it  not  wondrous, 
Blush-red  with  roses, 
The  beautiful,  mystical 

House  of  the  Soul ! 
Lo  in  my  innermost 
Chambers  is  floating 
Soft  perfume  and  music 

That  tremble  from  thee.  .  . 
Ah,  but  what  faces 

Are  these,  that  look  forth  ? 


•  .  .  Sit,  still,  Beloved,  while  I  search  thy 

looks 

For  memories.     O  thou  art  beautiful ! 
Crowned  with    silken    gold, — soft    amber 

tints 
Coming    and    going    on    thy   peach-hued 

flesh,— 
Thy  breath  a  perfume, — thy  blue  eyes  twain 

stars — 

Thy  lips  like  dewy  rosebuds  to  the  eye, 
Though  living    to    the    touch.      O  royal 

abode, 
Flooded  with   music,  light,   and  precious 

scent, 

Curtained  soft  with  subtle  mystery  ! 
Nay,    stir    not,    but    gaze    on,    still    and 

serene, 

Possessing  me  with  thy  superb  still  sweep 
Of  eyes  ineffable — sit  still,  my  queen, 


And  let  me,   clinging   on  thee,  court  the 

ways 
Wherein   I  know  thee.     Nay,   even  now, 

Beloved, 
When  all  the  world  like   some  vast  tidal 

wave 
Withdraws    and    leaves    us   on   a  golden 

shore 
Alone    together — when      thou    most     art 

mine — 
When  the  winds  blow  for  us,  and  the  soft 

stars 

Are  shining  for  us,  where  we  dream  apart, — 
Now  our  two  dwellings  in  a  dizzy  hour 
Have  mingled  their  foundations — clinging 

thus 

And  hungering  round  me  in  mine  ecstasy, — 
Beloved,    do    I    know    thee?     Hath    my 

Soul 
Spoken  to   thine  the  imperial  speech    of 

Souls, 

Perfect  in  meaning  and  in  melody  ? 
Tell  me,  Beloved,  while  thou  sittest  so, 
Mine  own,   my  queen,  my  palace  of  de- 
lights, 
What  lights  are  these  that  pass  and  come 

again 

Within  thee  ?     Is  the  Spirit  looking  forth, 
Or    is    it    but    the    glittering    gleams    of 

time 

Playing  on  vacant  windows  ?     Can  I  swear 
Thou  thinkest  of  me  now  at  all  ?     Behold 
Now  all  thy  beauty  is  suffused  with  bright- 
ness— 
Thou  blushest  and  thou  smilest.     Tell  me 

true, 
Thou  then  wast  far  within,  and  with  that 

cry 
I  woke  thee  out  of  dream.     O  speak  to 

me  ! — 
Soul's  speech,  Beloved  !    Do  not  smile  that 

way — 
A  flood  of    brightness    issues    from    thy 

door, 
But  mine  is  scarcely  bright.     Lovest  thou 

me, 

Beloved,  my  beloved?    Soul  beloved, 
Do  I  possess  thee?    Sight  and  scent  and 

touch 

Are  insufficient.   .  Open  !  let  me  in 
To  the    strange   chambers    I    have   never 

seen  ! 
Heart  of  the  rose,  unopen  !  or  I  die  ! 

T2 


THE  BOOK   OF   ORM. 


V. 
SONGS   OF  SEEKING. 

Songs  of  Seeking,  day  by  day 
Sung  while  wearying  on  the  way, — 
Feeble  cries  of  one  who  knows 
Nor  whence  he  comes,  nor  whither  goes. 
Yet  of  his  own  free  will  doth  wear 
The  bloody  Cross  of  those  who  fare 
Upward  and  on  in  sad  accord, — 
The  footsore  Seekers  of  the  Lord. 

I. 

0  THOU  whose  ears  incline  unto  my  singing, 
Woman  or  man,   thou  surely  bearest  thy 

burden, 

And  I  who  sing,  and  all  men,  bear  their 
burdens. 

Even  as  a  meteor-stone  from  suns  afar, 

1  fell  unto  the  ways  of  life  and  breathed, 
Wherefore  to    much    on    earth    I   feel  a 

stranger. 

I  found  myself  in  a  green  norland  valley, 
A  place    of   gleaming    waters    and    gray 

heavens, 
And  weirdly  woven  colours  in  the  air. 

A  basin  round  whose    margin    rose    the 

mountains 
Green-based,    snow-crown'd,    and    windy 

saeters  midway, 
And  the  thin  line  of  a  spire  against  the 

mountains. 

Around  were  homes  of  peasants  rude  and 

holy, 
Who  look'd  upon  the  mountains  and  the 

forests, 
On  the  waters,  on  the  vapours,  without 

wonder ; 

Who,   happy  in    their    labours    six    days 

weekly, 
Were  happy  on  their  knees  upon  the 

seventh. 
But  I  wonder'd,  being  strange,  and  was  not 

happy. 

IFor  I  cried  :   '  O  Thou  Unseen,  how  shall 

I  praise  Thee — 
How  shall  I  name  Thee  glorious  whom  I 

know  not — 
»lf  Thou  art  as  these  say,  I  scarce  conceive 

Thee. 


'  Unfold  to  me  the  image  of  Thy  features, 
Come  down  upon  my  heart,  that  I   may 

know  Thee  ;  '— 

And  I  made  a  song  of  seeking,  on  a  moun- 
tain. 

II. 

QUEST. 

As  in  the  snowy  stillness, 

Where  the  stars  shine  greenly 
In  a  mirror  of  ice, 

The  Reindeer  abideth  alone, 

And  speedeth  swiftly 

From  her  following  shadow 
In  the  moon, — 

I  speed  for  ever 

From  the  mystic  shape 

That  my  life  projects, 

And  my  Soul  perceives  ; 

And  I  loom  for  ever 

Through  desolate  regions 

Of  wondrous  thought, 

And  I  fear  the  thing 

That  follows  me, 

And  cannot  escape  it 
Night'  or  day. 

Doth  Thy  winged  lightning 
Strike,  O  Master ! 
The  timid  Reindeer 

Flying  her  shade  ? 
Will  Thy  wrath  pursue  me, 
Because  I  cannot 
Escape  the  shadow 

Of  the  thing  I  am  ? 

I  have  pried  and  pondered, 

I  have  agonised, 
I  have  sought  to  find  Thee, 

Yet  still  must  roam, 
Affrighted,  fleeing  Thee, 
Chased  by  the  shadow 
Of  the  thing  I  am, 
Through  desolate  regions 
Of  wondrous  thought ! 

in. 
THE  HAPPY  EARTH. 

SWEET,  sweet  it  was  to  sit  in  leafy  Forests, 
In  a  green  darkness,  and  to  hear  the  stirring 
Of  strange  breaths  hither  and  thither  in  the 
branches ; 


SONGS   OF  SEEKING. 


277 


And  sweet  it  was  to  sail  on  crystal  Waters, 
Between  the  dome  above  and  the  dome 

under, 
The  Hills  above  me  and  the  Hills  beneath 

me ; 

And  sweet  it  was  to  watch  the  wondrous 

Lightning 
Spring  flashing  at  the  earth,  and  slowly 

perish 
Under  the  falling  of  the  summer  Rain. 

I  loved  all  grand  and  gentle  and  strange 

things, — 
The  wind-flower  at  the  tree-root,  and  the 

white  cloud, 
The  strength  of  Mountains,  and  the  power 

of  Waters. 

And  unto  me  all  seasons  utter'd  pleasure  : 
Spring,  standing  startled,  listening  to  the 

skylark, 
The  wild  flowers  from  her  lap  unheeded 

falling ; 

And  Summer,  in  her  gorgeous  loose  ap- 
parel , 

And  Autumn,  with  her  dreamy  drooping 
lashes ; 

And  Winter,  with  his  white  hair  blown 
about  him. 

Yea,  everywhere  there  stirred  a  deathless 

beauty, 

A  gleaming  and  a  flashing  into  change, 
An  under-stream  of  sober  consecration. 

Yet  nought  endured,  but  all  the  glory 
faded, 

And  power  and  joy  and  sorrow  were  inter- 
woven ; 

There  was  no  single  presence  of  the  Spirit. 


IV. 

O  UNSEEN  ONE  ! 

BECAUSE  Thou  art  beautiful, 
Because  Thou  art  mysterious, 

Because  Thou  art  strong, 
Or  because  Thou  art  pitiless, 
Shall  my  Soul  worship  Thee, 

O  Thou  Unseen  One  ? 


As  men  bow  to  monarchs, 
As  slaves  to  their  owners, 

Shall  I  bow  to  Thee  ? 
As  one  that  is  fearful, 
As  one  that  is  slavish, 

Shall  I  pray  to  Thee? 

Wert  Thou  a  demigod, 
Wert  Thou  an  angel, 

Lip-worship  might  serve ; 
To  Thee,  most  beautiful, 
Wondrous,  mysterious, 

How  shall  it  avail? 

Thou  art  not  a  demigod, 
Thou  art  not  a  monarch, — 

Why  should  I  bow  to  Thee  ? 
I  am  not  fearful, 
I  am  not  slavish, — 

Why  should  I  pray  to  Thee  ? 

0  Spirit  of  Mountains  ! 
Strong  Master  of  Waters  ! 

Strange  Shaper  of  Clouds  ! 
When  these  things  worship  Thee 

1  too  will  worship  Thee, 
O  Maker  of  Men  ! 


v. 
pi    )*\  WORLD'S  MYSTERY. 

THE  World  was  wondrous   round  me — 

God's  green  World — 
A  World  of  gleaming  waters  and  green 

places, 
And  weirdly  woven  colours  in  the  air. 

Yet  evermore  a  trouble  did  pursue  me — 
A  hunger  for  the  wherefore  of  my  being, 
A  wonder  from  what  regions  I  had  fallen. 

I  gladdened  in    the  glad    things  of   the 

World, 
Yet  crying  always,    'Wherefore,  and  oh, 

wherefore  ? 
What  am  I?    Wherefore  doth  the  World 

seem  happy? ' 

I  saddened  in  the  sad  things  of  the  World, 
Yet  crying,    'Wherefore  are  men  bruised 

and  beaten  ? 
Whence  do  I  grieve  and  gladden  to  no 

end?' 


THE  BOOK  OF  ORM. 


VI. 

THE  CITIES. 

I  TOOK  my  staff  and  wandered  o'er  the 

mountains, 
And  came  among  the  heaps  of  gold  and 

silver, 
The  gorgeous  desolation  of  the  Cities. 

My  trouble  grew  tenfold  when  I  beheld 
The  agony  and  burden  of  my  fellows, 
The  pains  of  sick  men  and  the  groans  of 
hungry. 

I  saw  the  good  man  tear  his  hair  and  weep ; 
I  saw  the  bad  man  tread  on  human  necks 
Prospering    and     blaspheming :     and     I 
wondered. 

The  silken-natured  woman  was  a  bond- 
slave ; 

The  gross  man  foul'd  her  likeness  in  high 
places  ; 

The  innocent  were  heart-wrung :  and  I 
wondered. 

The  gifts  of  earth  are  given  to  the  base  ; 
The  monster  of   the  Cities  spurned    the 

martyr ; 
The  martyr  died,  denying :  and  I  wondered. 


VII. 

THE  PRIESTS. 

THREE  Priests  in  divers  vestments  passed 
and  whispered : 

•Worship  the  one  God,  stranger,  or  thou 
diest  ; 

Yea,  worship,  or  thy  tortures  shall  be  end- 
less.' 

I  cried,  '  Which  God,  O  wise  ones,  must  I 

worship  ? ' 
And  neither  answer' d,   but  one  showed  a 

Picture, 
A  fair  Man  dying  on  a  Cross  of  wood. 

And  this  one  said,    '  The    others  err,   O 

stranger ! 

Repent,  and  love  thy  brother, — 'tis  enough  ! 
The  Doom  of  Dooms  is  only  for  the  wicked.' 


I   turned  and  cried   unto  him,    '  Who  is 

wicked?' 

He  vanish'd,  and  within  a  house  beside  me 
I  heard  a  hard  man  bless  his  little  children. 

My  heart  was  full  of  comfort  for  the  wicked, 
Mine    eyes  were  cleared  with    love,   and 

everywhere 

The  wicked  wore  a  piteousness  like  star- 
light. 

I  felt  my  spirit  foul  with  misconceivings, 
I  thought  of  old  transgressions  and  was 

humble  ; 
I  cried,   'O  God,  whose  doom  is  on  the 

wicked ! 

'Thou  art  not   He  for  whom   my  being 

hungers ! 
The  Spirit  of  the  grand   things  and  the 

gentle, 
The  strength  of  mountains  and  the  power 

of  waters  ! ' 

And  lo  !  that  very  night  I  had  a  Vision. 


VIII. 

THE  LAMB  OF  GOD. 


I  SAW  in  a  vision  of  the  night 
The  Lamb  of  God,  and  it  was  white 
White  as  snow  it  wander'd  through 
Silent  fields  of  harebell-blue, 
Still  it  wandering  fed,  and  sweet 
Flower'd  the  stars  around  its  feet 


I  heard  in  vision  a  strange  voice 
Cry  aloud,  '  Rejoice  !  rejoice  1 
Dead  men  rise  and  come  away, 
Now  it  is  the  Judgment  Day ! ' 
And  I  heard  the  host  intone 
Round  the  footstool  of  the  Throne. 


Then  the  vision  pained  my  sight, 
All  I  saw  became  so  bright — 
All  the  Souls  of  men  were  there, 
All  the  Angels  of  the  air  ; 
God  was  smiling  on  His  seat, 
And  the  Lamb  was  at  His  feet. 


SONGS  OF  SEEKING. 


279 


Then  I  heard  a  voice—1  "Tis  done  ! 
Blest  be  those  whom  God  hath  won  !  ' 
And  the  loud  hosannah  grew, 
And  the  golden  trumpets  blew, 
And  around  the  place  of  rest 
Rose  the  bright  mist  of  the  Blest. 

5- 

Then  suddenly  I  saw  again, 
Bleating  like  a  thing  in  pain, 
The  Lamb  of  God  ;—  and  all  in  fear 
Gazed  and  cried  as  it  came  near, 
For  on  its  robe  of  holy  white 
,Crimson  blood-stains  glimmer'd  bright. 

6. 

O  the  vision  of  the  night  ; 
The  Lamb  of  God  !  the  blood-stains  bright! 
In  quiet  waters  of  the  skies 
It  bathed  itself  with  piteous  eyes  — 
Vainly  on  its  raiment  fell 
Cleansing  dews  ineffable  ! 


All  the  while  it  cried  for  pain, 

It  could  not  wash  away  the  stain  — 

All  the  gentle  blissful  sky 

Felt  the  trouble  of  its  cry  — 

All  the  streams  of  silver  sheen 

Sought  in  vain  to  make  it  clean. 


Where'er  it  went  along  the  skies 

The  Happy  turned  away  their  eyes  ; 

Where'er  it  past  from  shore  to  shore 

All  wept  for  those  whose  blood  it  bore — 

Its  piteous  cry  filled  all  the  air, 

Till  the  Dream  was  more  than  I  could  bear. 


And  in  the  darkness  of  my  bed 
Weeping  I  awakened — 
In  the  silence  of  the  night, 
Dying  softly  from  my  sight, 
Melted  that  pale  Dream  of  pain 
Like  a  snow-flake  from  thy  brain. 

IX. 

DOOM. 

MASTER,  if  there  be  Doom, 

All  men  are  bereaven  ! 
If,  in  the  universe, 


One  Spirit  receive  the  curse, 

Alas  for  Heaven  ! 
If  there  be  Doom  for  one, 
Thou,  Master,  art  undone. 

Were  I  a  Soul  in  heaven, 

Afar  from  pain, 
Yea,  on  Thy  breast  of  snow, 
At  the  scream  of  one  below 

I  should  scream  again. 
Art  Thou  less  piteous  than 
The  conception  of  a  Man  ? 


x. 

GOD'S  DREAM. 

I  HEAR  a  voice,  '  How  should  God  pardon 

sin? 
How  should  He  save  the  sinner  with  the 

sinless  ? 
That  would  be  ill :  the  Lord  my  God  is 

just.' 

Further  I  hear,  '  How  should  God  pardon 

lust? 

How  should  He  comfort  the  adulteress  ? 
That  would  be  foul :  the  Lord  my  God  is 

pure.' 

Further  I  hear,  '  How  should  God  pardon 

blood? 
How  should  the  murtherer  have  a  place  in 

heaven 
Beside  the  innocent  life  he  took  away  ? ' 

And  God  is  on  His  throne  ;  and  in  a  dream    " 
Sees  mortals  making  figures  out  of  clay, 
Shapen  like  men,  and  calling  them  God's 
angels. 

And  sees  the  shapes  look  up  into  His  eyes, 
Exclaiming,   '  Thou  didst  ill  to  save  this 

man ; 
Damn  Thou  this  woman,  and  curse  this 

cut-throat,  Lord ! ' 

God  dreams  this,  and  His  dreaming  is  the 

world  ; 
And  thou  and  I  are  dreams  within  His  - 

dream  ; 
And  nothing  dieth  God  hath  dreamt  or 

thought. 


280 


THE  BOOK  OF   ORM. 


FLOWER  OF  THE  WORLD. 

WHEREVER  men  sinned  and  wept, 
I  wandered  in  my  quest ; 
At  last  in  a  Garden  of  God 
I  saw  the  Flower  of  the  World. 

This  Flower  had  human  eyes, 

Its  breath  was  the  breath  of  the  mouth  ; 

Sunlight  and  starlight  came, 

And  the  Flower  drank  bliss  from  both. 

Whatever  was  base  and  unclean, 
Whatever  was  sad  and  strange, 
Was  piled  around  its  roots  ; 
It  drew  its  strength  from  the  same. 

Whatever  was  formless  and  base 
Pass'd  into  fineness  and  form  ; 
Whatever  was  lifeless  and  mean 
Grew  into  beautiful  bloom. 

Then  I  thought,  '  O  Flower  of  the  World, 
Miraculous  Blossom  of  things, 
Light  as  a  faint  wreath  of  snow 
Thou  tremblest  to  fall  in  the  wind. 

•  O  beautiful  Flower  of  the  World, 
Fall  not  nor  wither  away  ; 
He  is  coming — He  cannot  be  far — 
The  Lord  of  the  Flow'rs  and  the  Stars. 

And  I  cried,  '  O  Spirit  divine  ! 
That  walkest  the  Garden  unseen, 
Come  hither,  and  bless,  ere  it  dies, 
The  beautiful  Flower  of  the  World.' 


XII. 

O  SPIRIT! 

WEARY  with    seeking,   weary  with    long 

waiting, 

I  fell  upon  my  knees,  and  wept,  exclaiming, 
'  O  Spirit  of  the  grand  things  and  the  gentle! 

1  Thou  hidest  from  our  seeking — Thou  art 

crafty — 
Thou  wilt  not  let  our  hearts  admit  Thee 

wholly- 
Believing  hath  a  core  of  unbelieving — 

1 A  coward  dare  not  look  upon  Thy  features, 
But  museth  in  a  cloud  of  misconceiving  ; 
The  bravest  man's  conception  is  a  coward's. 


'  Wherefore,  O  wherefore,  art  Thou  veil'd 

and  hidden  ? 
The  world  were  well,  and  wickedness  were 

over, 
If  Thou  upon  Thy  throne  were  one  thing 

certain.' 

And  lo  !  that  very  night  I  had  a  Vision. 


VI. 
THE  LIFTING   OF  THE    VEIL. 

Thou  who  the  Face  Divine  wouldst  see, 
Think,— couldst  thou  bear  the  sight,  and  be? 
O  waves  of  life  and  thought  and  dream, 
Darkening  in  one  mysterious  Stream, 
Flow  on,  flow  loudly  ;  nor  become 
A  glassy  Mirror  sad  and  dumb, 
Whereon  for  evermore  might  shine 
The  dread  peace  of  the  Face  Divine  ! — 
Children  of  earth  whose  spirits  fail, 
Beware  the  Lifting  of  the  Veil ! 


ORM'S  VISION. 

MY  Soul  had  a  vision, 
And  in  my  Soul's  vision 
The  Veil  was  lifted, 
And  the  Face  was  there  ! 

There  was  no  portent 
Of  fire  or  thunder, 
The  wind  was  sleeping, 
Above  and  under 

All  things  lookt  fair. 
And  the  change  came  softly 

Unaware : 

On  a  golden  morrow 
The  Veil  was  lifted, 
And  yea  !  the  ineffable  Face  was  there. 

My  Soul  saw  the  vision 

From  a  silent  spot — 
Nay,  of  its  likeness 

Ask  me  not — 

How  should  my  Soul  fathom 
The  formless  features  ? 
Gaze  at  the  Master 

How  should  it  dare  ? 
Only  I  flutter'd 
To  my  knees  and  muttejr'd 

A  moan,  a  prayer — 


THE  LIFTING   OF  THE    VEIL 


281 


Silent,  ineffable, 
Gazing  downward, 
The  Face  was  there  ! 

This  let  me  whisper : 
It  stirred  not,  changed  not, 
Though  the  world  stood  still,  amazed  ; 
But  the  Eyes  within  it, 
Like  the  eyes  of  a  painted  picture, 
Met  and  followed 
The  eyes  of  each  that  gazed. 

ii. 
THE  FACE  AND  THE  WORLD. 

THEN  my  Soul  heard  a  voice 

Crying — '  Wander  forth 
O'er  hill  and  valley, 

O'er  the  earth — 
Behold  the  mortals 

How  they  fare  — 
Now  the  great  Father 

Grants  their  prayer ; 
Now  every  spirit 

Of  mortal  race, 
Since  the  Veil  is  lifted, 

Beholds  the  Face  ! 

I  awoke  my  body, 
And  up  the  mountains, 
With  the  sweet  sun  shining 

I  wander'd  free— 
And  the  hills  were  pleasant, 
Knee-deep  in  heather, 
And  the  yellow  eagle 

Wheel'd  over  me — 
And  the  streams  were  flowing, 
And  the  lambs  were  leaping 

Merrily ! 

But  on  the  hill-tops 
The  shepherds  gather* d, 
Up- gazing  dreamily 

Into  the  silent  air, 
And  close  beside  them 
The  eagle  butcher'd 
The  crying  lambkin, 

But  they  did  not  see,  nor  care. 
I  saw  the  white  flocks  of  the  shepherds, 
Like  snow  wind-lifted  and  driven, 

Blow  by,  blow  by ! 

And  the  terrible  wolves  behind  them, 
As  wild  as  the  winds,  pursuing 

With  a  rush  and  a  tramp  and  a  cry  ! 


I  passed  the  places 

Of  ice  and  snow, 
And  I  saw  a  Hunter 
Lying  frozen, — 
His  eyes  were  sealed — 

He  did  not  know  ; 
Drinking  his  heart's-blood, 
Not  looking  upward, 
Sat  the  soot-black  raven 

And  the  corby  crow. 

Then  I  knew  they  linger' d, 
Though  the  Veil  was  lifted, 

Death  and  Decay, 
And  my  Spirit  was  heavy 

As  I  turned  away  ; 
But  my  Spirit  was  brighter 
As  I  saw  below  me 
The  glassy  Ocean 

Glimmering, 

With  a  white  sail  dipping 
Against  the  azure 

Like  a  sea-bird's  wing— 
And  all  look'd  pleasant, 

On  sea  and  land, 
The  white  cloud  brooding, 
And  the  white  sail  dipping, 
And  the  village  sitting 

On  the  yellow  sand. 

And  beside  the  waters 
My  Soul  saw  the  fishers 
Staring  upward, 

With  dumb  desire, 
Though  a  mile  to  seaward, 
With  the  gulls  pursuing, 
Shot  past  the  herring 

With  a  trail  like  fire  ; 
Though  the  mighty  Sea-snake 
With  her  young  was  stranded 
In  the  fatal  shallows 

Of  the  shingly  bay — 
Though  their  bellies  hunger'd — 

What  cared  they  ? 

Hard  by  I  noted 
Little  children, 
Toddling  and  playing 

In  a  field  o'  hay — 
The  Face  was  looking, 
But  they  were  gazing 
At  one  another, 

And  what  cared  they  f 


282 


THE  BOOK  OF  ORM. 


But  one  I  noted, 

And  I  was  calmer 

A  little  Maiden, 

As,  slowly  and  sweetly, 

Look'd  up  o'  sudden 

Gather'  d  above  me 

And  ceased  her  play, 

Mysterious  Light  on  Light,  — 

And  she  dropt  her  garland 

And  weary  with  watching 

And  stood  upgazing, 

I  lay  and  slumber'd 

With  hair  like  sunlight, 

In  the  mellow  stillness 

And  face  like  clay. 

Of  the  blessed  night. 

All  was  most  quiet 

.  .  When  my  Soul  awaken'd 

In  the  air, 
Save  the  children's  voices 

In  the  lonely  place, 
The  Veil  was  lifted, 

And  the  cry  of  dumb  beasts,  — 

And,  behold  !  the  Face  — 

'Twas  a  weary  Sabbath 

And  sick,  heart-weary, 

Everywhere  — 

Onward  I  ran, 

Each  soul  an  eyeball, 

Through  fields  of  harvest 

Each  face  a  stare  ;  — 
And  I  left  the  place, 
And  I  wander'd  free, 
And  the  Eyes  of  the  Face 
Still  followed  me  ! 

Where  the  wheat  hung  wither'  d. 
Unreapt  by  man  ; 
And  a  ragged  Idiot 
Went  gibbering  gaily 
Among  the  wheat, 

At  the  good  Priest's  cottage 
The  gray-hair'd  grandsire 
Lay  stiff  in  the  garden  — 
For  his  Soul  had  fled— 

In  moist  palms  rubbing 
The  ears  together  ; 
And  he  laugh'd,  and  beckon'd 
That  I  should  eat. 

And  I  cried  in  passing, 

'  Oh  ye  within  there, 
Come  forth  in  sorrow 

At  the  city  gateway 
The  Sentinels  gather'd, 

And  bury  your  dead.' 
With  his  flock  around  him 

Fearful  and  drunken 
With  eyes  like  glass- 

Praying  bareheaded, 

Look  up  they  dared  not, 

The  pale  Priest,  kneeling 
All  gaunt  and  gray, 
Answer*  d,  '  Look  upward  ! 
Leave  the  dead  to  heaven  ! 

Lest,  to  their  terror, 
Some  luminous  Angel 
Of  awe  should  pass  ; 
And  my  Soul  passed  swiftly 

God  is  yonder  ! 
Behold,  and  pray  1  ' 

With  a  prayer, 
And  entered  the  City  :— 

Still  and  awful 

I  was  sick  at  heart 

Were  street  and  square. 

To  hear  and  see, 

'Twas  a  piteous  Sabbath 

And  to  feel  the  Face 

Everywhere  — 

Still  following  me, 

Each  soul  an  eyeball, 

And  all  seemed  darkening, 

Each  face  a  stare. 

And  my  heart  sank  down,  — 

As  I  saw  afar  off 

In  pale  groups  gather'd 

A  mighty  Town  — 

The  Citizens, 

When  with  no  warning, 

The  rich  and  poor  men, 

Slowly  and  softly 

The  lords,  the  lepers 

The  beautiful  Face  withdrew, 

From  their  loathsome  dens. 

And  the  whole  world  darken'd, 

There  was  no  traffic, 

And  the  silence  deepen'  d, 

The  heart  of  the  City 

And  the  Veil  fell  downward 

Stood  silently  ; 

With  a  silver  glimmer  of  dew. 

How  could  they  barter, 

THE  LIFTING  OF  THE    VEIL. 


283 


How  could  they  traffic, 

With  the  terrible  Eyes  to  see. 
Nay  !  each  man  brooded 

On  the  Face  alone  : 
Each  Soul  was  an  eyeball, 

Each  Shape  was  a  stone  ; 
And  I  saw  the  faces, 

And  some  were  glad, 
And  some  were  pensive, 

And  some  were  mad  ; 
But  in  all  places, 

Hall,  street,  and  lane, — 
'Twas  a  frozen  pleasure, 

A  frozen  pain. 

I  passed  the  bearers 

Of  a  sable  bier, 
They  had  dropped  their  burthen 

To  gaze  in  fear  ; 
From  under  the  trappings 

Of  the  death-cloth  grand, 
With  a  ring  on  the  finger, 
Glimmer' d  the  corpse's 

Decaying  hand. 
I  passed  the  bridal, 

Clad  bright  and  gay, 
Frozen  to  marble 

Upon  its  way. 

Freely  I  wandered 

Everywhere — 
No  mortal  heeded 
The  passing  footstep, 
Palace  and  hovel 

Were  free  as  the  mountain  air. 
Aye  !  softly  I  entered 

The  carven  court  of  stone, 
And  the  fountains  were  splashing, 
And  the  pale  King  sitting 

Upon  his  Jewell' d  throne — 
And  before  him  gather'd 
The  Frail  and  Sickly, 

The  Poor  and  Old  ; 
And  he  open'd  great  coffers, 
And  gave  thence  freely 

Fine  gear  and  gold, — 
Saying,  '  'Tis  written, 
Who  giveth  freely 
Shall  in  sooth  be  blessed 

Twenty-fold  ! ' 
But  he  look'd  not  upward, 
And  seem'd  unconscious 


Of  the  strange  Eyes  watching 

O'er  sea  and  land  ; 
Yet  his  eyelids  quiver'd, 
And  his  eyes  look'd  sidelong, 
And  he  hid  in  his  bosom 

A  blood-stained  hand  ; 
But  the  beggar  people 
Let  the  gold  and  raiment 
Lie  all  unheeded  ; 

While  with  no  speech. 
Upward  they  lifted 
Their  wild  pale  features, 
For  the  Face  was  mirror'd 

In  the  eyes  of  eajh. 

With  the  Face  pursuing 
I  wandered  onward, 

Heart-sick,  heart-sore, 
And  entered  the  fretted 

Cathedral  door  ; 
And  I  found  the  people 
Huddled  together, 
Hiding  their  faces 

In  shame  and  sin, 
For  through  the  painted 
Cathedral  windows 
The  Eyes  of  Wonder 

Were  looking  in  ! 
And  on  the  Altar, 
The  wild  Priest,  startled, 
Was  gazing  round  him 

With  sickly  stare, 
And  his  limbs  were  palsied, 
And  he  moaned  for  mercy, 
More  wonder-stricken 

Than  any  there. 

Then  I  fell  at  the  Altar, 

And  wept,  and  murmur'd, 
'  My  Soul,  how  fares  it, 
.  This  day,  with  thee  ? 
Art  thou  contented 

To  live  and  see, 
Or  were  it  better 

Not  to  be  ?  ' 

And  my  pale  Soul  whisper'd 
Like  a  band  that  boldest 
And  keepeth  from  growing 

A  goodly  tree, — 
A  terror  hath  me — 
I  feel  not,  stir  not — 
'Twere  surely  better 

Not  to  be  ! ' 


284 


THE  BOOK  OF  ORM. 


Then  a  rush  of  visions 

Went  wildly  by  ! 
My  Soul  beheld  the  mail:  la  World, 

And  the  luminous  Fac    on  high. 
And  methought,  affrighted, 

That  the  mortal  race 
Built  cover'd  cities 

To  hide  the  Face  ; 
And  gather'd  their  treasures 

Of  silver  and  gold, 
And  sat  amid  them 

In  caverns  cold ; 
And  ever  nightly, 
When  the  Face  of  Wonder 

Withdrew  from  man, 
Many  started, 
And  hideous  revel 

Of  the  dark  began. 
And  men  no  longer 
Knew  the  common  sorrow, 
The  common  yearning, 
The  common  love, 
But  each  man's  features 
Were  turn'd  to  marble, 
Changelessly  watching 

The  Face  above — 
A  nameless  trouble 

Was  in  the  air — 
The  heart  of  the  World 
Had  no  pulsation — 
'Twas  a  piteous  Sabbath 

Everywhere ! 

in. 
ORM'S  AWAKENING. 

I  AWOKE.     And  rising, 

My  Soul  look'd  forth— 
'Twas  the  dewy  darkness, 
And  the  Veil  was  glittering 

Over  the  earth ; 
But  afar  off  eastward 
The  Dawn  was  glimmering, 

All  silver  pale, 
And  slowly  fading 
With  a  mystic  tremor, 
The  Lights  gleam' d  beautiful 

In  the  wondrous  Veil 
Yea,  Dawn  came  cheerily, 
And  the  hill- tops  brighten'd, 
And  the  shepherds  shouted, 

And  a  trumped  blew, 
And  the  misty  Ocean 


Caught  silver  tremors, 

With  the  brown-sail'd  fish-boats 

Glimmering  through — 
And  the  City  murmur'd 
As  I  ran  unto  it, 
And  my  heart  was  merry, 

And  my  fears  were  few  ; 
And  singing  gaily 
The  lark  rose  upward, 
Its  brown  wings  gleaming 

With  the  morning  dew  ! 


VII. 
THE  DEVI  US  MYSTICS. 

A  scroll  antique,  with  weeds  behung, 
Writ  in  a  mystic  pagan  tongue, 
Wash'd  to  Orm's  feet  by  the  wan  Main 
After  long  nights  of  wind  and  rain  : 
Translating  this  at  dead  of  night, 
The  Celt  beholds  with  dazzled  sight 
Strange  gods  stalk  past,  and  in  their  train, 
Supreme,  the  King  of  Sin  and  Pain. 


I. 

THE  INSCRIPTION  WITHOUT. 

THE  Moral  Law  :  all  Evil  is  Defect ; 
The  limb  deform'd  for  common  use  of  life 
Defect,— but  haply  in  the  fine  of  growth. 


II. 
THE  TREE  OF  LIFE. 

THE  Master  said : 

'  I  have  planted  the  Seed  of  a  Tree, 
It  shall  be  strangely  fed 
With  white  dew  and  with  red, 
And  the  Gardeners  shall  be  three-- 
Regret, Hope,  Memory ! ' 

The  Master  smiled : 

For  the  Seed  that  He  had  set 
Broke  presently  through  the  mould, 
With  a  glimmer  of  green  and  gold, 

And  the  Angels'  eyes  were  wet — 

Hope,  Memory,  Regret 

The  Master  cried  : 

'  It  liveth — breatheth — see  I 
Its  soft  lips  open  wide — 
It  looks  from  side  to  side — 


THE  DEVI  US  MYSTICS. 


285 


How  strange  they  gleam  on  me, 
The  little  dim  eyes  of  the  Tree  ! ' 

The  Master  said  : 

'  After  a  million  years, 
The  Seed  I  set  and  fed 
To  itself  hath  gathered 

All  the  world's  smiles  and  tears — 

How  mighty  it  appears  ! ' 

The  Master  said  : 

'  At  last,  at  last,  I  see 
A  Blossom,  a  Blossom  o'  red 
From  the  heart  of  the  Tree  is  shed. 

Fairer  it  seems  to  be 

Than  the  Tree,  or  the  leaves  o'  the  Tree. 

The  Master  cried : 

'  O  Angels,  that  guard  the  Tree, 
A  Blossom,  a  Blossom  divine 
Grows  on  this  greenwood  of  mine  : 

What  may  this  Blossom  be  ? 

Name  this  Blossom  to  me  ! ' 

The  Master  smiled  ; 

For  the  Angels  answered  thus  : 
'  Our  tears  have  nourish'd  the  same, 
We  have  given  it  a  name 

That  seemeth  fit  to  us — 

We  have  called  it  SpiritusC 

The  Master  said : 

'  This  Flower  no  Seed  shall  bear 
But  hither  on  a  day 
My  beautiful  Child  shall  stray, 

And  shall  snatch  it  unaware, 

And  wreath  it  in  his  hair." 

The  Master  smiled  : 

'  The  Tree  shall  never  bear — 
Seedless  shall  perish  the  Tree, 
But  the  Flower  my  Child's  shall  be  ; 

He  will  pluck  the  Flower  and  wear, 

Till  it  withers  in  his  hair  ! ' 

in. 

THE  SEEDS. 

WHEN  all  that  puzzles  sense  was  planned, 
When  the  first  seeds  of  being  fell, 

In  reverence  bent,  /  stood  at  hand, 
And  heard  a  part  of  the  spell : 

'  Grow,  Seed  !  blossom,  Brain ! 

Deepen  into  power  and  pain  ! ' 


Shoots  of  the  seed,  I  saw  them  grow, 
Green  blades  of  vegetable  sheen, 

They  darken'd  as  with  wind,  and  so 
The  Earth's  black  ball  grew  green— 

'  Grow,  Seed  !  blossom,  Brain  ! 

Deepen,  deepen,  into  pain  ! ' 

Then  starry-bright  out  of  the  ground 
The  firstling  flowers  sprang  dewy-wet ; 

I  pluckt  one,  and  it  felt  no  wound — 
There  was  no  pain  as  yet. 

'  Grow,  Seed  !  blossom,  Brain  ! 

Deepen,  deepen,  into  pain  ! ' 

Next  in  His  Hand  He  lifted  thus 

Bright  bubbling  water  from  the  spring—- 
And-in  that  crystal  tremulous 

Quicken' d  a  living  thing. 
'  Grow,  Seed !  blossom,  Brain  ! 
Deepen,  deepen,  into  pain  ! ' 

And  suddenly  !  ere  I  was  'ware, 

(So  fast  the  dreadful  spell  was  tried), 

O'er  Earth's  green  bosom  everywhere 
Crawl' d  living  things,  and  cried. 

'  Grow,  Seed  !  blossom,  Brain  ! 

Deepen,  deepen,  into  pam  ! ' 

On  every  grass-blade  glittering  bright 
A  shining  Insect  leapt  and  played, 

By  every  sea,  on  every  height, 
A  Monster  cast  its  shade— 

'  Grow,  Seed  !  blossom,  Brain  ! 

Deepen,  deepen,  into  pain  ! ' 

The  most  was  lingering  in  the  least, 
The  least  became  the  most  anon  ; 

From  plant  to  fish,  from  fish  to  beast, 
The  Essence  deepen' d  on. 

'  Grow,  Seed !  blossom,  Brain  ! 

Deepen,  deepen,  into  pain  ! ' 

And  deeper  still  in  subtle  worth 

The  Essence  grew,  from  gain  to  gain, 

And  subtler  grew,  with  each  new  birth, 
The  creature's  power  of  pain. 

'  Grow,  Seed  !  blossom,  Brain  ! 

Deepen,  deepen,  into  pain  ! ' 

Paler  I  saw  the  Master  grow, 

Faint  and  more  faint  His  breathing  fell, 
And  strangely,  lower  and  more  low, 

He  mutter'd  o'er  the  spell : 


286 


THE  BOOK  OF  ORM. 


'  Grow,  Seed  !  blossom,  Brain  ! 
Deepen,  deepen,  into  pain  ! ' 

Now  the  deep  murmur  of  the  Earth 
Was  mingled  with  a  painful  cry, 

The  yeanling  young  leapt  up  in  mirth, 
But  the  old  lay  down  to  die. 

'  Grow,  Seed  !  blossom,  Brain  ! 

Deepen,  deepen,  into  pain  ! ' 

When  standing  in  the  perfect  light 
I  saw  the  first-born  Mortal  rise — 

The  flower  of  things  he  stood  his  height 
With  melancholy  eyes. 

1  Grow,  Seed  !  blossom,  Brain  ! 

Deepen,  deepen,  into  pain  !' 

From  all  the  rest  he  drew  apart, 
And  stood  erect  on  the  green  sod, 

Holding  his  hand  upon  his  heart, 
And  looking  up  at  God  ! 

'  Grow,  Seed  !  blossom,  Brain  ! 

Deepen,  deepen,  into  pain  !' 

He  stood  so  terrible,  so  dread, 

With  right  hand  lifted  pale  and  proud, 
God  feared  the  thing  He  fashioned, 

And  fled  into  a  cloud. 
'  Grow,  Seed  !  blossom,  Brain  ! 
Deepen,  deepen,  into  pain  ! ' 

And  since  that  day  He  hid  away 

Man  hath  not  seen  the  Face  that  fled, 

And  the  wild  question  of  that  day 
Hath  not  been  answered. 

'  Grow,  Seed  !  blossom,  Brain  ! 

Deepen,  deepen,  into  pain  ! ' 

And  since  that  day,  with  cloudy  face, 
Of  His  own  handiwork  afraid, 

God  from  His  heavenly  hiding-place 
Peers  on  the  thing  He  made. 

•  Grow,  Seed  !  blossom,  Brain ! 

Deepen,  deepen,  into  pain  ! ' 

0  Crown  of  things,  O  good  and  wise, 
O  mortal  Soul  that  would'st  be  free, 

1  weep  to  look  into  thine  eyes — 
Thou  art  so  like  to  me  ! 

'  Grow,  Seed  !  blossom,  Brain  I 
Deepen,  deepen,  into  pain  1 ' 


FIRE  AND  WATER  ;  OR,  A  VOICE 
OF  THE  FLESH. 

'  Two  white  arms,  a  moss  pillow, 

A  curtain  o'  green  ; 
Come  love  me,  love  me, 

Come  clasp  me  unseen  ! ' 

As  red  as  a  rose  is, 

I  saw  her  arise, 
Fresh  waked  from  reposes, 

With  wild  dreamy  eyes. 

I  sprang  to  her,  clasp'd  her 

I  trembled,  I  prest, 
I  drank  her  warm  kisses, 

I  kiss'd  her  white  breast. 

With  a  ripple  of  laughter, 

A  dazzle  of  spray, 
She  melted,  she  melted, 

And  glimmer'd  away  ! 

Down  my  breast  runs  the  water, 
In  my  heart  burns  the  fire, 

My  face  is  like  crimson 
With  shame  and  desire  ! 

v. 

S  ANITAS. 

DREAMILY,  on  her  milk-white  Ass, 

Rideth  the  maiden  Sanitas — 

With  zone  of  gold  her  waist  is  bound, 

Her  brows  are  with  immortelles  crown'd  ; 

Dews  are  falling,  song-birds  sing, 

It  is  a  Christian  evening — 

Lower,  lower,  sinks  the  sun, 

The  white  stars  glimmer,  one  by  one ! 

Who  sitteth  musing  at  his  door  ? 
Silas,  the  Leper,  gaunt  and  hoar  ; 
Though  he  is  curst  in  every  limb, 
Full  whitely  Time  hath  snowed  on  him — 
Dews  are  falling,  song-birds  sing, 
It  is  a  Christian  evening — 
The  Leper,  drinking  in  the  air, 
Sits  like  a  beast,  with  idiot  stare. 

How  pale  !  how  wondrous !  doth  she  pass, 
The  heavenly  maiden  Sanitas  ; 
She  looketh,  and  she  shuddereth, 
She  passeth  on  with  bated  breath — 


THE  DEVWS  MYSTICS. 


287 


Dews  are  falling,  song-birds  sing, 
It  is  a  Christian  evening — 
His  mind  is  like  a  stagnant  pool, 
She  passeth  o'er  it,  beautiful ! 

Brighter,  whiter,  in  the  skies, 

Open  innumerable  eyes  ; 

The  Leper  looketh  up  and  sees, 

His  aching  heart  is  soothed  by  these — 

Dews  are  falling,  song-birds  sing, 

It  is  a  Christian  evening — 

He  looketh  up  with  heart  astir, 

And  every  Star  hath  eyes  like  her  ! 

Onward  on  her  milk-white  Ass 

Rideth  the  maiden  Sanitas. 

The  boughs  are  green,  the  grain  is  pearl'd, 

But  'tis  a  miserable  world — 

Dews  are  falling,  song-birds  sing, 

It  is  a  Christian  evening — 

All  o'er  the  blue  above  her,  she 

Beholds  bright  spots  of  Leprosy. 

VI. 

THE  PHILOSOPHERS. 

WE  are  the  Drinkers  of  Hemlock  ! 

Lo  !  we  sit  apart, 
Each  right  hand  is  uplifted, 

Each  left  hand  holds  a  heart ; 
At  our  feet  rolls  by  the  tumult, 

O'er  our  heads  the  still  stars  gleam — 
We  are  the  Drinkers  of  Hemlock  ! 

We  drink  and  dream  ! 

We  are  the  Drinkers  of  Hemlock  ! 

We  are  worn  and  old, 
Each  hath  the  sad  forehead, 

Each  the  cup  of  gold. 
In  our  eyes  the  awe-struck  Nations 

Look,  and  name  us  wise,  and  go  — 
We  are  the  Drinkers  of  Hemlock  ! 

We  drink  and  know  ! 

We  are  the  Drinkers  of  Hemlock  I 

Silent,  kingly,  pure ; 
Who  is  wise  if  we  be  foolish  ? 

Who,  if  we  die,  shall  endure? 
The  Bacchanals  with  dripping  vine-leaves, 

Blushing  meet  our  eyes,  and  haste — 
We  are  the  Drinkers  of  Hemlock  ! 

Bitter  to  taste  ! 


We  are  the  Drinkers  of  Hemlock  ! 

Spirits  pure  as  snow  ; 
White  star-frost  is  on  our  foreheads — 

We  are  weary,  we  would  go. 
Hark  !  the  world  fades  with  its  voices, 

Fades  the  tumult  and  the  cry — 
We  are  the  Drinkers  of  Hemlock  ! 

We  drink  and  die  ! 


VII. 

THE  DEVIL'S  PRAYER. 

FATHER  which  art  in  Heaven, — not  here 

below ; 
Be  Thy  name  hallowed,  in  that  place  of 

worth  ; 
And  till  Thy   Kingdom   cometh,   and  we 

know, 
Be    Thy    will    done    more  tenderly  on 

Earth  ; 
Since  we  must  live — give  us  this  day  our 

bread ; 
Forgive    our    stumblings — since    Thou 

mad'st  us  blind  ; 

If  we  offend  Thee,  Sire,  at  least  forgive 
As  tenderly  as  we  forgive  our  kind  ; — 
Spare  us  temptation, — human  or  divine  ; 

Deliver  us  from  evil,  now  and  then  ; 
The  Kingdom,   Power,  and  Glory  all  are 

Thine 
For  ever  and  for  evermore.     Amen. 


VIII. 

HOMUNCULUS  ;  OR,  THE  SONG  OF 
DEICIDES. 

i. 

Now  all  the  mystic  Lamps  that  shed 
Light  on  the  living  world  are  fled  ; 
Now  the  swart  digger  rinses  gold, 
Under  a  starless  heaven  and  cold  ; 
Now  every  God,  save  one,  is  dead, 
Now  that  last  God  is  almost  sped  ; 
Cold  falls  the  dew,  chill  rise  the  tides, 
To  this  still  Song  of  Deicides. 


Homunculus  !  Homunculus  ! 
Not  ever  shalt  thou  conquer  us  ! 
Zeus,  Astaroth,  Brahm,  and  Menu, 
With  all  the  gods,  white,  black,  and  blue, 


288 


THE   BOOK  OF  ORM. 


Are  fallen,  and  while  I  murmur  thus, 
Strong,  and  more  strong,  Homunculus 
Upon  a  Teuton  Jackass  rides, 
Singing  the  Song  of  Deicides. 


It  seems  but  yesterday  the  dim 

And  solitary  germ  of  him 

Glimmer'd  most  strangely  on  my  sense, 

While,  with  my  microscope  intense, 

I  search'd  a  Beast's  brain-cavern  dark  : — 

A  germ — a  gleam — a  cell — a  spark — 

Grown  to  Homunculus,  who  rides 

To  my  sad  Song  of  Deicides. 

4- 

Oh  had  I  then  so  far  foreseen, 
This  day  of  doom  had  never  been, 
For  with  a  drop  of  fire  from  Hell 
I  would  have  killed  the  feeble  Cell. 
Too  late  !  too  late  !  for  slow  and  strange 
He  has  passed  the  darker  sphere  of  change, 
Lo  !  he  emerges — shouts — derides, 
Singing  the  Song  of  Deicides  ! 

5- 

Black  is  his  raiment,  top  to  toe, 
His  flesh  is  white  and  warm  below, 
All  through  his  silent  veins  flow  flee 
Hunger,  and  Thirst,  and  Venery  ; 
But  in  his  eye  a  still  small  flame, 
Like  the  first  Cell  from  which  he  came, 
Burns  round  and  luminous, — as  he  rides 
To  my  still  Song  of  Deicides  ! 

6. 

With  Obic  Circle  he  began, 
Swift  through  the  Phallic  rites  he  ran, 
He  watch'd  until  his  head  went  round 
The  Memphian  Sphinx's  stare  profound  ; 
All  these  by  turn  he  overcast, 
And  suck'd  the  Orphic  Egg  at  last ; 
Now  laughing  low  he  westward  strides, 
Singing  the  Song  of  Deicides  ! 

7- 

He  drives  the  Gods  o'  the  north  to  death — 
The  Sanctus  Spiritus  is  breath — 
He  plucks  down  Thammuz  from  his  joy, 
And  kneads  him  to  a  huswife's  toy  ; 
He  stares  to  shame  the  Afric  spheres  ; 
He  strikes — he  overturns— he  sneers — 
Oven  the  fallen  Titans  strides, 
And  squeaks  the  Song  of  Deicides  ! 


Homunculus !  Homunculus 
Wretched,  degenerate,  impious  ! 
He  will  not  stay,  he  will  not  speak — 
Another  blow  !  another  shriek  ! 
Lo  !  where  he  hacketh  suddenly 
At  the  red  Cross  of  Calvary  ! 
All  darkens — faintly  moan  the  tides — 
Sing  low  the  Song  of  Deicides  ! 


Gigantic,  in  a  dark  mist,  see  ! 
Loometh  the  Cross  of  Calvary  ; 
With  rayless  eyes  the  Skeleton 
Quivers  through  all  its  bones  thereon. 
Deep  grows  the  mist,  faint  falls  the  wind, 
The  bloodshot  sun  setteth  behind  .  .  . 
A  crash  !  a  fall — The  Cross  he  strides, 
Singing  the  Song  of  Deicides  ! 


Now  he  hath  conquered  godhead  thus, 
Whither  will  turn  Homunculus  ? 
/  am  the  only  God  let  be- 
All  but  my  fiends  believe  in  me  ; 
(Though  all  the  Angels  deem  me  prince, 
My  kith  and  kin  I  can't  convince.) 
Christ  help  me  now  !     Hither  he  rides, 
Singing  my  song  of  Deicides  ! 


Silent  I  wait— (how  stand  the  odds?) 
I  am  the  Serpent  of  the  Gods,— 
Wait !— draw  the  forked  tongue  in  slow, 
Hoard  up  my  venom  for  the  blow. 
Crouch  in  my  cave— of  all  the  host 
I  know  he  feareth  me  the  most — 
Then  strike  and  crush  that  thing  accurst 
I  should  have  stifled  at  the  first !  .  .  . 
All  Earth  awaits  !     Hither  he  rides  ! 
Cold  fall  the  dews,  chill  rise  the  tides, 
To  this  still  Song  of  Deicides  ! 


IX. 

ROSES. 

1  SAD,  and  sweet,  and  wise. 
Here  a  child  reposes, 

Dust  is  on  his  eyes, 

Quietly  he  lies, — 
Satan,  strew  Roses!* 


THE  DEVIL'S   MYSTICS. 


289 


Weeping  low,  creeping  slow, 
Came  the  Weary-winged !     . 

Roses  red  over  the  dead 
Quietly  he  flinged. 

'I  am  old,'  he  thought, 

'  And  the  world's  day  close-;  ; 

Pale  and  fever-fraught, 

Sadly  have  I  brought 
These  blood-red  Roses." 

By  his  side  the  mother  came 
Shudderingly  creeping  ; 

The  Devil's  and  the  woman's  heart 
Bitterly  were  weeping. 

'  Swift  he  came  and  swift  he  flew, 

Hopeless  he  reposes  ; 
Waiting  on  is  weary  too, — 
Wherefore  on  his  grave  we  strew 

Bitter,  withering  Roses.' 

The  Devil  gripped  the  woman's  heart, 
With  gall  he  staunched  its  bleeding  ; 

Far  away,  beyond  the  day, 
The  Lord  heard  interceding. 

1  Lord  God,  One  in  Three  ! 

Sure  Thy  anger  closes  ; 
Yesterday  I  died,  and  see 
The  Weary-winged  over  me 

Bitterly  streweth  Roses.' 

The  voice  cried  out,  '  Rejoice  !  rejoice  ! 

There  shall  be  sleep  for  evil ! ' 
And  all  the  sweetness  of  God's  voice 

Passed  strangely  through  the  Devil. 


HERMAPHRODITUS. 

THIS  is  a  section  of  a  Singer's  Brain — 
How  delicately  run  the  granular  lines  ! 
By  what  strange  chemic  could  I  touch  this 

thing, 

That  it  again  might  quicken  and  dissolve, 
Changing   and    blooming,    into    glittering 

gleams 

Of  fancy  ;  or  what  chemic  could  so  quicken 
The  soft  soil  backward  that  it  might  put 

forth 

Green  vegetable  shoots,— as  long  ago  ? 
Upon  what  headland  did  it  blow  of  oid 


And  ripen  hitherward  !   Surely  'twas  a  place 
Flowery  and  starry  ! 

Cast  it  back  to  the  grave  ! 
Look  down  no  more,  but  raise  thine  eyes 

and  see 
Who  standeth  glorious  in  the  brightening 

Dawn! 

Behold  him,  on  the  apex  of  the  cone, 
The  perfect  blossom  of  miraculous  life, 
Hermaphroditus.     With  how  subtle  shade 
Male  into  female  beauty  mingleth — thews 
Of  iron  coated  o'er  with  skin  of  silk  ;  — 
There,  on  the  crown  he  stands,  the  perfect 

one, 

Witching  the  world  with  sterile  loveliness, — 
Beyond  him,  darkness  and  the  unknown 

change, 

The  next  uncurtain' d  and  still  higher  scene 
That  is  to  follow.      Are  those  pinions, — 

peeping 

Under  the  delicate-flesh'd  white  shoulder- 
blades? 

XI. 

AFTER. 

I  SEE,  as  plain  as  eyes  can  see, 
From  this  dark  point  of  mystery, 
Death  sitting  at  his  narrow  Gate, — 
While  all  around,  disconsolate, 
The  wretched  weep,  the  weary  wait. 
God  pity  2is  who  weep  and  wait! 

But,  better  still,  if  sadder,  I 
From  this  dark  corner  can  descry 
What  is  well- veil' d  from  human  view  : 
Beyond  the  Gate  I  can  pursue 
The  flight  of  those  who  have  passed  thro'. 
God  pity  us  who  have  passed  thro  ! 

In  at  the  portal,  one  by  one, 

They    creep,    they   crawl,    with    shivering 

moan — 

Nobles  and  Beggars,  Priests  and  Kings  ; 
Out  at  the  further  gate  each  springs 
A  Spirit, — with  a  pair  of  wings  ! 

God  pity  us  now  we  have  wings! 

All  round  the  starry  systems  stir, 
Each  silent  as  a  death-chamber  ; 
There  is  no  sound  of  melody, 
Only  deep  space  and  mystery  ; 


290 


THE   BOOK  OF  ORM. 


And  each  hath  wings  to  wander  free. 
God  pity  us  who  wander  free  ! 

Some  cannot  use  their  wings  at  all ; 
Some  try  a  feeble  flight  and  fall ; 
A  few,  like  larks  in  earthly  skies, 
With  measured  beat  of  wings  uprise, 
And  make  their  way  to  Paradise. 
God  help  us  on.  to  Paradise  ! 

If  ever  in  their  flight  through  space 
They  chance  to  reach  that  resting-place, 
I  do  not  think  these  creatures  dim 
Will  find  the  Lord  of  Cherubim 
Exactly  what  they  picture  Him. 

May  God  be  what  we  picture  Him  I 

Out  of  the  fiery  Sun  is  thrown 
To  other  worlds  the  meteor-stone  ; 
Back  to  the  Sun,  in  season  right, 
The  meteor-stone  doth  take  its  flight. 
Lost  in  that  melancholy  light. 

We  fade  in  melancholy  light. 

I  see,  as  plain  as  eyes  can  see, 
From  this  dark  point  of  mystery, 
Those  fledgling  Spirits  everywhere  ; 
They  sing,  they  lessen,  up  the  air  ; 
TheV  go  to  God — Christ  help  them  there  ! 
W*g&  to  God— Christ  help  us  there  ! 


XII. 
His  PRAYER. 

IN  the  time  of  transfiguration, 

Melt  me,  Master,  like  snow  ; 

Melt  me,  dissolve  me,  inhale  me 

Into  Thy  wool-white  cloud  ; 

With  a  warm  wind  blow  me  upward 

Over  the  hills  and  the  seas, 

And  upon  a  summer  morning 

Poise  me  over  the  valley 

Of  Thy  mellow,  mellow  realm  ; 

Then,  for  a  wondrous  moment, 

Watch  me  from  infinite  space 

With  Thy  round  red  Eyeball  of  sunlight, 

And  melt  and  dissolve  me  downward 

In  the  beautiful  silver  Rain 

That  drippeth  musically, 

With  a  gleam  like  Starlight  and  Moonlight, 

On  the  footstool  of  Thy  Throne. 


VIII. 

THE    VISION  OF   THE   MAN 
ACCURST. 

How  in  the  end  the  Judgment  dread 
Shall  by  the  Lord  thy  God  be  said,— 
While  brightly  in  a  City  of  Rest 
Shall  flash  the  fountains  of  the  Blest, 
And  gladdening  around  the  Throne 
All  mortal  men  shall  smile,— save  one.  .  .  . 
Children  of  Earth,  hear,  last  and  first, 
The  Vision  of  the  Man  Accurst. 

JUDGMENT  was  over  ;   all  the  world  re- 
deem'd 
Save  one  Man, — who  had  sinned  all  sins, 

whose  soul 

Was  blackness  and  foul  odour.    Last  of  all, 
When    all  was    lamb-white,    through    the 

summer  Sea 

Of  ministering  Spirits  he  was  drifted 
On  to  the  white  sands ;  there  he  lay  and 

writhed, 
Worm-like,    black,   venomous,   with    eyes 

accurst 

Looking  defiance,  dazzled  by  the  light 
That  gleam'd  upon  his  clench'd  and  bloocl- 

stain'd  hands  ; 

While,  with  a  voice  low  as  a  funeral  bell, 
The    Seraph,    sickening,    read    the    sable 

scroll, 

And  as  he  read  the  Spirits  ministrant 
Darken' d  and  murmur*  d,  '  Cast  him  forth, 

O  Lord ! ' 
And,  from  the  Shrine  where  unbeheld  He 

broods, 
The  Lord  said,    ' 'Tis  the  basest  mortal 

born — 
Cast  him  beyond  the  Gate  ! ' 

The  wild  thing  laugh' d 
Defiant,  as  from  wave  to  wave  of  light 
He  drifted,  till  he  swept  beyond  the  Gate, 
Past  the  pale  Seraph  with  the  silvern  eyes  ; 
And  there  the  wild  Wind,  that  for  ever 

beats 
About  the  edge  of  brightness,  caught  him 

up, 
And,  like  a  straw,  whirl' d  round  and  lifted 

him, 

And  on  a  dark  shore  in  the  Underworld 
Cast  him,  alone  and  shivering  ;    for  the 

Clime 


THE    VISION  OF   THE  MAN  ACCURST. 


291 


Was  sunless,  and  the  ice  was  like  a  sheet 
Of  glistening  tin,  and  the  faint  glimmering 

peaks 

Were  twisted  to  fantastic  forms  of  frost, 
And    everywhere    the    frozen    moonlight 

steam 'd 
Foggy  and  blue,   save  where  the  abysses 

loom'd 

Sepulchral  shadow.     But  the  Man  arose, 
With  teeth  gnash'd  beast-like,  waved  wild 

feeble  hands 

At  the  white  Gate  (that  glimmer'd  far  away, 
Like  to  the  round  ball  of  the  Sun  beheld 
Through  interstices  in  a  wood  of  pine), 
Cast  a  shrill  curse  at  the  pale  Judge  within 
Then  groaning,  beast-like  crouch' d. 

Like  golden  waves 

That  break  on  a  green  island  of  the  south, 
Amid  the  flash  of  many  plumaged  wings, 
Passed  the  fair  days  in  Heaven.     By  the 

side 

Of  quiet  waters  perfect  Spirits  walked, 
Low  singing,  in  the  star-dew,  full  of  joy 
In  their  own  thoughts  and  pictures  of  those 

thoughts 
Flash'd  into  eyes  that  loved  them  ;  while 

beside  them, 

After  exceeding  storm,  the  Waters  of  Life 
With  soft  sea-sound  subsided.     Then  God 

said, 
1  'Tis  finished— all  is  well ! '      But  as  He 

spake 

A  voice,  from  out  the  lonely  Deep  beneath, 
Mock'd ! 

Then  to  the  Seraph  at  the  Gate, 
Who  looketh  on  the  Deep  with  steadfast 

eyes 
For  ever,    God  cried,   'What  is  he  that 

mocks  ? ' 
The    Seraph    answered,    ''Tis   the    Man 

accurst ! ' 

And,  with  a  voice  of  most  exceeding  peace, 
God  ask'd,  '  What  doth  the  Man?' 

The  Seraph  said : 
•Upon  a  desolate  peak,   with  hoar-frost 

hung, 

Amid  the  steaming  vapours  of  the  Moon, 
He  sitteth  on  a  throne,  and  hideously 
Playeth  at  judgment ;  at  his  feet,  with  eyes 
Slimy  and  luminous,  squats  a  monstrous 

Toad; 


Above  his  head  pale  phantoms  of  the  Stars 
Fulfil  cold  ministrations  of  the  Void, 
And  in  their  dim  and  melancholy  lustre 
His  shadow,  and  the  shadow  of  the  Toad 
Beneath  him,  linger.      Sceptred,  thron'd, 

and  crown'd, 

The  foul  judgeth  the  foul,  and  sitting  grim, 
Laughs ! ' 

With  a  voice  of  most  exceeding  peace 
The  Lord  said,  '  Look  no  more  ! ' 

The  Waters  of  Life 

Broke  with  a  gentle  sea-sound  gladdening — 
God  turn'd  and  blest  them  ;  as  He  blest  the 

same, 

A  voice  from  out  the  lonely  Void  beneath, 
Shriek'd ! 


Then  to  the  Seraph  at  the  Gate, 
Who  looketh  on  the  Deep  with  steadfast 

eyes 
For  ever,  God  cried,    'What  is  he  that 

shrieks  ? ' 
The    Seraph    answered,     '  'Tis    the    Man 

accurst ! ' 

And,  with  a  voice  of  most  exceeding  peace, 
God  ask'd,  •  What  doth  the  Man  ? ' 

The  Seraph  said : 
'Around  him  the  wild  phantasms  of  the 

fog 
Moan  in  the  rheumy  hoar-frost  and  cold 

steam. 
Long    time,    crown'd,    sceptred,    on    his 

throne  he  sits 
Playing  at  judgment ;  then  with  shrill  voice 

cries — 
"'Tis    finished,   thou  art  judged!"  and, 

fiercely  laughing, 

He  thrusteth  down  an  iron  heel  to  crush 
The  foul  Toad,  that  with  dim  and  luminous 

eyes 

So  stareth  at  his  Soul.  Thrice  doth  he  lift 
His  foot  up  fiercely — lo  !  he  shrinks  and 

cowers — 

Then,  with  a  wild  glare  at  the  far-off  Gate, 
Rushes  away,  and,  rushing  through  the  dark, 
Shrieks ! ' 

With  a  voice  of  most  exceeding  peace 
The  Lord  said,  '  LooTc  no  more  ! ' 

U2 


292 


THE   BOOK  OF  ORM. 


The  Waters  of  Life, 
The  living,  spiritual  Waters,  broke, 
Fountain-like,    up    against    the    Master's 

Breast, 

Giving  and  taking  blessing.     Overhead 
Gather'd  the  shining  legions  of  the  Stars, 
Led  by  the  ethereal  Moon,  with  dewy  eyes 
Of  lustre  :  these  have  been  baptised  in  fire, 
Their  raiment  is  of  molten  diamond, 
And  'tis  their  office,  as  they  circling  move 
In  their  blue  orbits,  evermore  to  turn 
Their  faces    heavenward,    drinking  peace 

and  strength 
From  that  great  Flame  which,  in  the  core 

of  Heaven, 

Like  to  the  white  heart  of  a  violet  burns, 
Diffusing  rays  and  odour.  Blessing  all, 
God  sought  their  beauteous  orbits,  and 

behold ! 

The  Eyes  innumerably  glistening 
Were  turned  away  from  Heaven,  and  with 

sick  stare, 

Like  the  blue  gleam  of  salt  dissolved  in  fire, 
They  searched  the  Void,  as  human  faces 

look 
On  horror. 

To  the  Seraph  at  the  Gate, 
Who  looketh  on  the  Deep  with  steadfast 

eyes, 
God  cried,    'What  is  this  thing  whereon 

they  gaze  ? ' 
The    Seraph    answered,    '  On    the    Man 

accurst.' 

And,  with  a  voice  of  most  exceeding  peace, 
God  ask'd,  '  What  doth  the  Man?' 

The  Seraph  said  : 
1  O  Master  !  send  Thou  forth  a  tongue  of 

fire 

To  wither  up  this  worm  !  Serene  and  cold, 
Flooded  with  moon-dew,  lies  the  World, 

and  there 
The  Man  roams ;  and  the  image  of  the 

Man 

In  the  wan  waters  of  the  frosty  sphere 
Falleth  gigantic.     Up  and  down  he  drifts, 
Worm-like,    black,    venomous,   with    eyes 

accursed, 

Waving  his  bloody  hands  in  fierce  appeal, 
So  that  the  gracious  faces  of  Thy  Stars 
Are  troubled,   and  the  stainless    tides  of 

light 


Shadow  pollution.      With    wild,    ape-like 

eyes, 
The    wild    thing    whining    peers  through 

horrent  hair, 

And  rusheth  up  and  down,  seeking  to  find 
A  face  to  look  upon,  a  hand  to  touch, 
A  heart   that  beats  ;  but  all  the  World 

void 
And  beauteous.      All  alone  in  the  Co 

Clime, 

Alone  within  the  lonely  universe, 
Crawleth  the  Man  accurst ! ' 


Then  said  the  Lord, 
'Doth  he  repent?'     And  the  fair  Seraph 

said, 
'  Nay  he  blasphemeth  !     Send  Thou  forth 

Thy  fire  ! ' 

But  with  a  voice  of  most  exceeding  peace, 
Out  of   the    Shrine    where  unbeheld   He 

broods, 
God  said,    '  What  I  have  made,  a  living 

Soul, 

Cannot  be  unmade,  but  endures  for  ever.' 
Then  added,  '  Call  the  Man  ! ' 

The  Seraph  heard, 
And  in  a  low  voice  named  the  lost  one's 

name  ; 

The  wild  Wind  that  for  ever  beats  the  Gate 
Caught  up  the  word,  and  fled  through  the 

cold  Void. 

'Twas  murmur'd  on,  as  a  lorn  echo  fading, 
From  peak  to  peak.     Swift  as  a  wolf  the 

Man 
Was  rushing  o'er  a  waste,  with  shadow 

streaming 

Backward  against  a  frosty  gleaming  wind, 
When  like  a  fearful  whisper  in  his  ear 
'Twas  wafted  ;  then  his  blanch'd  lips  shook 

like  leaves 

In  that  chill  wind,  his  hair  was  lifted  up, 
He  paused,  his  shadow  paused,  like  stone 

and  shadow, 
And  shivering,  glaring  round  him,  the  Man 

moaned, 
'  Who  calls  ? '   and  in   a  moment  he  was 

'ware 
Of  the  white  light  streaming  from  the  far 

Gate, 
And  looming,    blotted  black  against    the 

light, 

The  Seraph  with  uplifted  forefinger, 
Naming  his  name ! 


d 

: 


THE    VISION  OF   THE   MAN  ACCURST. 


293 


And  ere  the  Man  could  fly, 
The  wild  Wind  in  its  circuit  swept  upon 

him, 
And,  like  a  straw,  whirled  him  and  lifted 

him, 
And    cast    him    at    the  Gate, — a   bloody 

thing- 
Mad,  moaning,  horrible,  obscene,  unclean  ; 
A  body  swollen  and  stained  like  the  wool 
Of  sheep  that  in  the  rainy  season  crawl 
About  the  hills,  and  sleep  on  foul  damp  beds 
Of  bracken  rusting  red.     There,  breathing 

hard, 

Glaring  with  fiery  eyes,  panted  the  Man, 
With  scorch'd  lips  drooping,  thirsting  as  he 

heard 
The  flowing  of  the  Fountains  far  within. 

Then  said  the  Lord,  '  Is  the  Man  there?' 

and  '  Yea,' 
Answered  the  Seraph  pale.     Then  said  the 

Lord, 
'What  doth    the    Man?'      The    Seraph, 

frowning,  said  : 

1 0  Master,  in  the  belly  of  him  is  fire, 
He    thirsteth,    fiercely    thrusting    out    his 

hands, 
And   threateneth,    seeking  water  ! '     Then 

the  Lord 
Said,  '  Give  him  water — let  him  drink  ! ' 

The  Seraph, 

Stooping  above  him,  with  forefinger  bright 
Touched  the  gold  kerbstone  of  the  Gate, 

and  lo  ! 
Water    gush'd  forth   and    gleamed ;    and 

lying  prone 
The  Man  crawl'd  thither,  dipt  his  fever'd 

face, 
Drank  long  and  deeply ;   then,    his  thirst 

appeased, 

Thrust  in  his  bloody  hands  unto  the  wrist, 
And  let  the  gleaming  Fountain  play  upon 

them, 

And  looking  up  out  of  his  dripping  hair, 
Grinned  mockery  at  the  giver. 

Then  the  Lord 
Said  low,    '  How  doth   the   Man  ? '     The 

Seraph  said  : 

'  It  is  a  snake  !     He  mocketh  all  Thy  gifts, 
And,  in  a  snake's  voice  half-articulate, 
Blasphemeth  ! '      Then  the   Lord  :  '  Doth 

the  Man  crave 


To  enter  in  ? '     '  Not  so,'  the  Seraph  said, 
'  He  saith '     '  What  saith  he  ?  '    '  That 

his  Soul  is  filled 
With  hate  of  Thee  and  of  Thy  ways  ;  he 

loathes 
Pure  pathways  where  the  fruitage   of  the 

Stars 

Hangeth  resplendent,  and  he  spitteth  hate 
On  all  Thy   Children.     Send  Thou  forth 

Thy  fire  ! 

In  no  wise  is  he  better  than  the  beasts, 
The  gentle  beasts,  that  come  like  morning- 
dew 
And  vanish.    Let  him  die  ! '    Then  said  the 

Lord: 
1  What  I  have  made  endures ;  but  'tis  not 

meet 
This  thing  should  cross  my  perfect  work  for 

ever. 
Let  him  begone  ! '     Then  cried  the  Seraph 

pale  : 

'  O  Master  !  at  the  frozen  Clime  he  glares 
In  awe,  shrieking  at  Thee  ! '  '  What  doth 

he  crave  ? 
'  Neither  Thy  Heaven  nor  by  Thy  holy 

ways. 

He  murmureth  out  he  is  content  to  dwell 
In  the  Cold  Clime  for  ever,  so  Thou  sendest 
A  face  to  look  upon,  a  heart  that  beats, 
A  hand  to  touch— albeit  like  himself, 
Black,    venomous,     unblest,     exiled,    and 

base: 

Give  him  this  thing,  he  will  be  very  still, 
Nor  trouble  Thee  again.' 

The  Lord  mused. 

Still, 
Scarce   audible    trembled    the  Waters  of 

Life- 
Over  all  Heaven   the  Snow  of  the  same 

Thought 

Which  rose  within  the  Spirit  of  the  Lord 
Fell  hushedly  ;  the  innumerable  Eyes 
Swam  in  a  lustrous  dream. 

Then  said  the  Lord : 
'  In  all  the  waste  of  worlds  there  dwelleth 

not 

Another  like  himself— behold  he  is 
The  basest  Mortal  born.     Yet  'tis  not  meet 
His  cruel  cry,  for  ever  piteous, 
Should  trouble  my  eternal  Sabbath-day. 
Is  there  a  Spirit  here,  a  human  thing, 


294 


THE  BOOK  OF  ORM. 


^ 


Will  pass  this  day  from  the  Gate  Beautiful 
To  share  the  exile  of  this  Man  accurst, — 
That  he  may  cease  the  shrill  pain  of  his  cry, 
And  I  have  peace  ? ' 

Hushedly,  hushedly, 

Snow'd  down    the    Thought   Divine— the 
living  Waters 

Murmured  and  darkened.    But  like  mourn- 
ful mist 

That    hovers    o'er  an  autumn  pool,    two 
Shapes, 

Beautiful,  human,  glided  to  the  Gate 

And  waited. 

'  What  art  thou  ? '  in  a  stern  voice 

The  Seraph  said,  with  dreadful  forefinger 

Pointing  to  one.     A  gentle  voice  replied, 

'  I  will  go  forth  with  him  whom  ye  call  curst! 

He  grew  within  my  womb — my  milk  was 
white 

Upon  his  lips.     I  will  go  forth  with  him  ! ' 

'  And  thou  ? '  the  Seraph  said.    The  second 
Shape 

Answered,  '  I  also  will  go  forth  with  him  ; 

I  have  kist  his  lips,  I  have  lain  upon  his 
breast, 

I  bare  him  children,  and  I  closed  his  eyes  ; 

I  will  go  forth  with  him  ! ' 

Then  said  the  Lord, 

'  What  Shapes  are  these  who  speak  ? '   The 
Seraph  answered : 

•  The  woman  who  bore  him  and  the  wife  he 

wed — 
The  one  he  slew  in  anger— the  other  he 

stript, 
With  ravenous  claws,  of  raiment  and  of 

food.' 
Then  said  the  Lord,  '  Doth  the  Man  hear  ? ' 

'  He  hears,' 

Answer'd  the  Seraph  ;  '  like  a  wolf  he  lies, 
Venomous,  bloody,  dark,  a  thing  accurst, 
And  hearkeneth,  with  no  sign  ! '  Then  said 

the  Lord  : 
'  Show  them  the  Man,'  and  the  pale  Seraph 

cried, 

•  Behold ! ' 

Hushedly,  hushedly,  hushedly, 

In  heaven  fell  the  Snow  of  Thought  Divine, 

Gleaming  upon  the  Waters  of  Life  beneath, 

And  melting,— as  with  slow  and  lingering 

pace, 


The  Shapes  stole  forth  into  the  windy  cold, 
And  saw  the  thing  that  lay  and  throbbed 

and  lived, 
And  stooped  above  him.   Then  one  reach' d 

a  hand 
And  touch'd  him,   and  the    fierce    thing 

shrank  and  spat, 
Hiding  his  face. 

•  Have  they  beheld  the  Man  ? ' 
The  Lord  said ;  and  the  Seraph  answer' d 

1  Yea  ; ' 
And  the  Lord  said  again,  '  What  doth  the 

Man?' 

'  He  lieth  like  a  log  in  the  wild  blast, 
And  as  he  lieth,  lo  !  one  sitting  takes 
His  head  into  her  lap,  and  moans  his  name, 
And  smoothes  his  matted  hair  from  off  his 

brow, 

And  croons  in  a  low  voice  a  cradle  song  ; 
And  lo  !  the  other  kneeleth  at  his  side, 
Half-shrinking  in  the  old  habit  of  her  fear, 
Yet  hungering  with  her  eyes,  and  passion- 
ately 
Kissing  his  bloody  hands.' 

Then  said  the  Lord, 
1  Will  they  go  forth  with  him  ? '    A  voice 

replied, 
'  He  grew  within  my  womb — my  milk  was 

white 

Upon  his  lips.     I  will  go  forth  with  him  ! ' 
And  a  voice  cried,   '  I  will  go  forth  with 

him  ; 
I  have  kist  his  lips,  I  have  lain  upon  his 

breast, 

I  bare  him  children,  and  I  closed  his  eyes  ; 
I  will  go  forth  with  him  ! ' 

Still  hushedly 
Snowed  down   the  Thought    Divine,    the 

Waters  of  Life 

Flow'd  softly,  sadly ;  for  an  alien  sound, 
A  piteous  human  cry,  a  3ob  forlorn 
Thrill' d  to  the  heart  of  Heaven. 

The  Man  wept. 

And  in  a  voice  of  most  exceeding  peace 
The  Lord  said  (while  against  the  Breast 

Divine 

The  Waters  of  Life  leapt,  gleaming,  glad- 
dening) : 
'  The  Man  is  saved  ;  let  the  Man  enter  in  1 ' 


POLITICAL   MYSTICS. 


295 


Political  Mystics. 


Shades  of  the  living  Time, 

Phantoms  men  deem  real, 
Rise  to  a  runic  rhyme, 

Cloak'd  from  head  to  heel  I 
One  by  one  ye  pass 
As  in  a  magician's  glass, 
One  by  one  displace 
The  hood  which  veils  the  face  ; 
And  ever  we  recognise, 

With  terrible  deep-drawn  breath, 
Christ's  inscrutable  eyes, 

And  the  bloodless  cheeks  of  Death  ! 


TITAN  AND  AVATAR. 

A   CHORAL  MYSTIC. 
I. 

ODE  OF  NATIONS. 

'TWAS  the  height  of  the  world's  night,  there 

was  neither  warmth  nor  light, 
And  the  heart  of  Earth  was  heavy  as  a 

stone  ; 
Yet  the  nations  sick  with  loss  saw  the  surge 

of  heaven  toss 
Round  the  meteor  of  the  Cross  ;  and  with 

a  moan 
All  the  people  desolate  gazed  thereon  and 

question' d  fate, 

And  the  wind  went  by  and  bit  them  to  the 
bone. 

Hope  was  fled  and  Faith  was  dead,  and  the 

black  pell  overhead 
Hung  like  Death's,  for  doom  was  heavy 

everywhere, — 
When  there  rose  a  sudden  gleam,  then  a 

thunder,  then  a  scream, 
Then  a  lightning,  stream  on  stream  aslant 

the  air ! 
And  a  dreadful  ray  was  shed  around  the 

Cross,  and  it  grew  red, 
And  the  pallid  people  leapt  to  see  the 
glare. 

Fire  on  the  heights  of  France  !   Fire  on  the 

heights  of  France  ! 

Fire  flaming  up  to  heaven,   streak  on 
streak ! 


How  on  France  Kings  look't  askance  !  how 

the  nations  join'd  in  dance  ! 
To  see  the  glory  glance  from  peak  to 

peak! 
How  the  chain'd  lands  curst  their  chance, 

as  they  bent  their  eyes  on  France  ! 
Earth  answer'd,  and  her  tongues  began 
to  speak. 

Now  hark ! — who    lit    the    spark    in    the 

miserable  dark  ? 
O    Washington,    men    miss    thee    and 

forget. 
Where  did  the  light  arise,  in  answer  to 

man's  cries  ? 
In  the  West ;  in  those  far  skies  it  rose 

and  set. 
Who  brought  it   in  his  breast  from  the 

liberated  West? 

Speak  his  name,    and  kneel  and  bless 
him  :  Lafayette. 

O  Sire,   that   madest    Fire!      How    with 

passionate  desire 
Leapt  the  nations  while  it  gather'd  and 

up-streamed ; 
Then  they  fed  it,  to  earth's  groans,  with 

Man's  flesh  and  blood  and  bones, 
And  with  Altars  and  with  Thrones  ;  and 

still  it  screamed. 
Then  they  cast  a  King  thereon—but    a 

flash,  and  he  was  gone. 
Then  they  brought  a  Queen  to  feed  it : — 

how  it  gleam'd  ! 


296 


POLITICAL   MYSTICS. 


Then  it  came  to  pass,  Earth's  frame  seem'd 

dissolving  in  the  flame, 
Then  it  seem'd  the  Soul  was  shaken  on 

its  seat, 
And  the  pale  Kings  with  thin  cries  look'd 

in  one  another's  eyes, 
Saying.  '  Hither  now  it  flies,  and  O  how 

fleet! 
Sound  loud  the  battle-cry,  we  must  trample 

France  or  die, 

Strike  the  Altar,  cast  it   down  beneath 
our  feet.' 

Forth  they  fared.    The  red  fire  flared  on 

the  heights  of  France,  and  glared 
On  the  faces  of  the  free  who  kept  it  fed  ; 
Came  the  Kings  with  blinded  eyes,  but  with 

baffled  prayers  and  cries 
They  beheld  it  grow  and  rise,  still  bloody- 
red  ; 
When  lo !   the  Fire's  great  heart,  like  a 

red  rose  cloven  apart 
Open'd  swiftly,  to  deep  thunder  overhead. 

And  lo,    amid  the  glow,   while  the  pale 

Kings  watched  woe, 
Rose  a  single  SHAPE,  and  stood  upon  the 

pyre. 
Its  eyes  were  deeply  bright,  and  its  face,  in 

their  sad  sight, 

Was  pallid  in  a  white-heat  of  desire, 
And  the  cheek  was  ashen  hued  ;  and  with 

folded  arms  it  stood 

And  smiled  bareheaded,  fawn'd  on  by 
the  Fire ! 

Forehead  bare,  the  Shape  stood  there,  in 

the  centre  of  the  glare, 
And  cried,  '  Away  ye  Kings,  or  ye  shall 

die.' 
And  it  drave  them  back  with  flame,  o'er  the 

paths  by  which  they  came, 
And  they  wrung  their  hands  in  shame  as 

they  did  fly. 
As  they  fled  it  came  behind  fleeter-footed 

than  the  wind, 

And  it  scatter'd  them,  and  smote  them 
hip  and  thigh. 

All  amazed,  they  stood  and  gazed,  while 

their  crying  kingdoms  blazed, 
With    their   fascinated    eyes    upon    the 
Thing  ;— 


When  lo,  as  clouds  dilate,  it  grew  greater 

and  more  great, 
And  beneath  it  waited  Fate  with  triple 

sting  ; 
All  collossus-like  and  grand,  it  bestrode  the 

sea  and  land, 

And  behold  the  crowned  likeness  of  a 
KING! 

Then  the  light  upon  the  height,  that  had 

burned  in  all  men's  sight 
Was  absorb'd  into  the  creature  where  he 

smiled. 

O  his  face  was  wild  and  wan — but  the  burn- 
ing current  ran 
In  the  red  veins  of  the  Man  who  was  its 

child  :— 
To  the  sob  of  the  world's   heart  did  the 

meteor-light  depart, 
Earth  darken,  and  the  Altar  fall  denied. 

The   aloud    the    Phantom   vow'd,    '  Look 

upon  me,  O  ye  proud  ! 
Kiss  my  footprints  !    I  am  reaper,  ye  are 

wheat  ! 
Ye  shall  tremble  at  my  name,  ye  shall  eat 

my  bread  in  shame, 
I  will  make  ye  gather  tame  beneath  my 

Seat.' 
And  the  gold  that  had  been  bright  on  the 

hair  of  Kings  at  night, 
Ere  dawn  was  shining  dust  about  his 
feet. 

At  this  hour  behold  him  tower,  in  the  dark- 
ness of  his  power, 
Look  upon  him,  search  his  features,  O 

ye  free ! 
Is  there  hope  for  living  things  in  this  fiery 

King  of  Kings, 
Doth  the  song  that  Freedom  sings  fit 

such  as  he  ? 

Is  it  night  or  is  it  day,  while  ye  bleed  be- 
neath his  sway? 

It  is  night,  deep  night  on  earth  and  air 
and  sea. 

Still  the  height  of  the  world's  night.    There 

is  neither  warmth  nor  light, 
And  the  heart  of  Earth  is  heavy  as  a 

stone ; 
And  within  the  night's  dark  core  where  the 

sad  C  ross  gleam'd  before 
Sits  the  Shape  that  Kings  adore,  upon  a 
Throne  ; 


TITAN  AND  AVATAR. 


297 


And  the  nations  desolate  crawl  beneath  and 

curse  their  fate, 

And  the  wind  goes  by  and  bites  them  to 
the  bone. 

O  Sire  that  mad'st  the  Fire,  and  the  Shape 

that  dread  and  dire 
Came  from  thence,  the  first  and  last  born 

of  the  same, 
To  Thee  we  praying  throng,  for  Thou  alone 

art  strong, 
To  right  our    daily  wrong    and    bitter 

shame  : 
From  the  aching  breast  of  earth,  lift  the  red 

Fire  and  its  birth  ! 

Consume  them — let  them  vanish  in  one 
flame ! 


THE  AVATAR'S  DREAM. 

(Buonaparte  loquitur,  at  Erfurt.) 

THE  cup  is  overflowing.     Pour,  pour  yet, 
My   Famulus— pour   with   free   arm-sweep 

still, 

And  when  the  wine  is  running  o'er  the  brim, 
Sparkling  with  golden  bubbles  in  the  sun, 
I  will  stoop  down  and  drink  the  full  great 

draught 

Of  glory,  and  as  did  those  heroes  old 
Drinking  ambrosia  in  the  happy  isles, 
Dilate  at  once  to  perfect  demigod. 
Meantime,  I  feast  my  eyes  as  the  wine  runs 
And  the  cup  fills.     Fill  up,  my  Famulus  ! 
Pour  out  the  precious  juice  of  all  the  earth, 
Pour  with  great  arm-sweep,  that  the  world 

may  see. 

0  Famulus— O  Spirit— O  good  Soul, 
Come  close  to  me  and  listen — curl  thyself 
Up  in  my  breast — let  us  drink  ecstasy 
Together ;   for  the  charm   thou  taughtest 

me 

1  working  like  slow  poison  in  the  veins 
Of  the  great  Nations  :  each,  a  wild-beast 

tamed, 
Looks  mildly  in  mine  eyes  and  from  my 

hand 
Eats  gently  ;    and  this  day   I   speak  the 

charm 

To  Russia,  and,  behold  !  the  crafty  eyes 
Blink  sleepily,  while  on  the  fatal  lips 
Hovers  the  smile  of  appetite  half-fed, 


Half-hungry  :  he  being  won,  all  else  is  won, 

And  at  our  feet,  our  veritable  slave, 

Lies  Europe.     Whisper  now,  Soul  of  my 

Soul, 
Since  we  have  won  this  Europe  with  the 

sword, 
How  we  shall  portion  it  to  men  anew. 

First,  in  the  centre  of  the  West,  I  set 
My  signet  like  a  star,  and  on  a  rock 
Base  the  imperial  Throne  :  seated  whereon, 
The  royal  crown  of  France  upon  my  head, 
At  hand  the  iron  crown  of  Lombardy, 
And  in  my  sceptre  blended  as  a  sign 
The  hereditary  gems  of  Italy, 
Spain,  Holland,  I  shall  see  beneath  my  feet 
My  Puppets  sit  with  strings  that  reach  my 

hand: 

Murat  upon  the  throne  of  Italy, 
Jerome  upon  new-born  Westphalia, 
Louis  the  lord  of  Holland,  and  perchance 
A  kinsman  in  the  Prussian  dotard's  place  ; 
And,  lower  yet,  still  puppets  to  my  hand, 
Saxony,  Wurtemberg,  Bavaria, 
The  petty  principalities  and  powers, 
All  smiling  up  in  our  hot  thunderous  air  ; — 
And  all  the  thrones,  the  kingdoms,  and  the 

powers 

That  break  to  life  beneath  them,  murmur- 
ing 

'Hail,   King  of  Europe — Emperor  of  the 
West.' 


Thus  far.  Still  farther?  Driven  to  the  East, 
First  by  fond  cunning,  afterwards  by  blows, 
The  Russian's  eyes  bloodshot  with  greed 

will  watch, 

While  still  our  flood-tide  inexhaustible 
Of  Empire  washes  to  the  Danube,  rolls 
Into  the  Baltic,  and  with  one  huge  wave 
Covers  the  plains  of  Poland.     Then  at  last 
The  mighty  Empires  of  the  East  and  West 
Shall  clash  together  in  the  final  blow, 
And  that  which  loses  shall  be  driven  on 
To  lead  the  heathen  on  in  Asia, 
And  that  which  hurls  the  other  to  such 

doom 

Shall  be  the  chosen  Regent  of  the  World. 
Shall  this  be  so,  O  Spirit  ?    Pour,  O  pour  - 
Yea,  let  me  feast  mine  eyes  upon  the  wine, 
Albeit  I  drink  not.     See  ! — Napoleon, 
Waif  from  the  island  in  the  southern  sea. 


298 


POLITICAL   MYSTICS. 


H    tVi*» 


Sun  to  whom  all  the  Kings  o'  the  earth  are 

stars, 
Sword  before  which  all  earthly  swords  are 

straws, 

Child  of  the  Revolution,  Crown  and  Head, 
Heart,  Soul,  Arm,  King,  of  all  Humanity! 

O  Famulus— in  God's  name  keep  my  soul 
From  swooning  to  vain-glory.     I  believe 
God  (not  the  other)  sends  thee,   that  thy 

mouth 

May  fill  me  with  a  message  for  the  race, 
And  purge  the  peevish  and    distemper' d 

world 

Of  her  hereditary  plague  of  Kings. 
P  or  Man,  I  say,      all  in  due  season  grow 
Back  to  the  likeness  hat  he  wore  at  first, 
One  mighty  nation       pling  the  green  earth, 
One  equal  people  with  one  King  and  head, 
One    Kingdom   with    one    Temple,    and 

therein 

No  priest,  no  idol,  no  ark  sacrifice,  " 
But  spheric  music  and  the  dreamy  light 
Of  heaven's  mild  azure  and  the  changeless 

stars. 
The  curse  of  earth  hath  been  the  folly  of 

peace 

Under  vain  rulers,  so  dividing  earth, 
That  twenty  thousand  kings  of  Lilliput 
Strutted  and  fretted  heaven  and  teased  the 

time, 

Kept  nature's  skin  for  ever  on  the  sting 
Like  vermin,  and  perplex'd  Humanity 
With  petty  pangs  and  peevish  tyranny, 
While  the  soul  sickened  of  obscure  disease, 
And  the  innumerable  limbs  of  state 
Moved  paralysed,  most  inert,  or  dead. 
Came  Revolution  like  avenging  fire  ; 
And  in  the  red  flash  miserable  men 
Beheld  themselves  and  wondered — saw  their 

Kings 

Still  strutting  Lilliputian  in  the  glare, — 
And  laugh'd  till  heaven  rung,— gave  one 

fierce  look 

To  heaven,  and  rose.     Outraged  Columbia 
Breath'd  o'er  the  sea,  and  scorch'd  the  in- 
solent cheek 

Of  Albion.     Albion  paled  before  the  flame. 
The  darken'd  embers  faded  in  the  West, 
And  all  was  still  again  ;   when  one  mad 

morn 
Men  wakening,  saw  the  heights  of  France 

afire  1 


Earth  shook  to  her  foundation,  and  the 

light 

Illumed  the  hemispheres  from  west  to  east, 
And  men  that  walk  beneath  and  under  us, 
Holding  their  heads  to  other  stars,  beheld 
The  glory  flaming  from  the  underworld. 
The  little  K  ings  of  Europe,  lily-pale, 
Scream'd  shrill  to  one  another.     Germany 
In  her  deep  currents  of  philosophy 
Mirror' d  the  fiery  horror.     Russia  groaned, 
Sheeted  in  snows  that  took  the  hue  of  blood 
Under  the  fierce  reflection.     Italy, 
Spain  and  the  Tyrol,  wild  Helvetia, 
Caught  havoc ;    and  even    on   the  white 

English  crags 

A  few  strong  spirits,  in  a  race  that  binds 
Its  body  in  chains  and  calls  them  Liberty, 
And  calls  each  fresh  link  Progress,  stood 

erect 

With  faces  pale  that  hunger'd  to  the  light. 
Then,  like  a  hero  in  his  anguish,  burnt 
Poor  gentle  Louis,  whom  the  stars  destined 
To  be  a  barber  and  who  was  a  King, 
And  as  he  flamed    and  went    like   very 

straw, 
Earth   shriek'd  and  fever'd   France   grew 

raving  mad. 

Pass  o'er  the  wild  space  of  delirium, 
When  France  upon  her  stony  bed  of  pain 
Raved,    screamed,    blasphemed,    was    me- 

dicined  with  blood, 

Forgot  all  issues  and  the  course  of  time  ; 
And  come  to  that  supremer,  stiller  hour 
When,  facing  these  fierce  wasps  of  Kings 

who  flocked 

To  sting  the  weary  sufferer  to  death, 
/rose  and  stood  behind  her,  drove  them 

back, 
So !    with  a    sword -sweep.      Those   were 

merry  days, 
My  Spirit !     These  were  spring  days,  winds 

of  war 

Sharp-blowing,  but  the  swallow  on  the  way 
Already  bringing  summer  from  the  south  ! 
Then  one  by  one  I  held  these  little  Kings 
Between  my  fingers  and  inspected  them 
Like  curious  insects,  while  with  buzz  and 

hiss 

Their  tiny  stings  were  shooting  in  and  out ; 
And  how  I  laugh'd 

To  think  such  wretched  verm  in  had  so  long 
Tortured  unhappy  Man,  and  to  despair 


TITAN  AND  AVATAR. 


299 


Driven  him  and  his  through  infinite  ways 

of  woe ! 
When,  with  one  sweep  of  his  great  arm, 

one  blow 

Of  his  sharp  palm,  he  might  annihilate 
Such  creatures  by  the  legion  and  in  sooth 
Exterminate  the  breed  !     O  Spirit  of  Man  ! 
A  foolish  Titan  !  foolish  now  as  then, 
Guided  about  the  earth  like  a  blind  man 
By  any  hand  that  leads, 
And  then  and  now  unconscious  of  a  frame 
Whose  strength,    into  one    mighty  effort 

gathered, 

Might  shake  the  firmament  of  heaven  itself  ! 
.  .  .  Well,  we  have  done  this  service.  We 

have  freed 
Earth  from  its  pest  of  Kings,  so  that  they 

crawl 

Powerless  and  stingless  ;  \ve  have  medicined 
Desperate  disease  with  direful  remedies  ; 
And  lo,  the  mighty  Spirit  of  mankind 
Hath  stagger'd  from  the  sick-bed  to  his 

feet, 

And  feebly  totters,  picking  darken'd  steps, 
And  while  I  lead  him  on  scarce  sees  the 

sun, 
But  questions  feebly  '  Whither? '  Whither? 

Indeed 
I  am  dumb,  and  all  Earth's  voices  are  as 

dumb — 

God  is  not  dumber  on  His  throne.  In  vain 
I  would  peer  forward,  but  the  path  is  black. 
Ay, — whither? 

O  what  peevish  fools  are  mortals, 
Tormented  by  a  raven  on  each  shoulder, 
'Whither?'    and    'wherefore?'     Shall    I 

stand  and  gape 

At  heaven,  straining  eyes  into  the  tomb, 
Like  some  purblind  philosopher  or  bard 
Asking  stale  questions  of  the  Infinite 
Dumb  with  God's  secret?  questioning  the 

winds, 
The  waves,  the  stars,  all  things  that  live 

and  move, 

All  signs,  all  augurs  ?    Never  yet  hath  one 
Accorded  answer.     '  Whither  ? '  Death  re- 
plies 
With  dusky  smile.      'Wherefore?'     The 

echoes  laugh 
Their   'wherefore?    wherefore?'      Of  the 

time  unborn, 
And  of  the  inevitable  Law,  no  voice 


Bears  witness.     The  pale  Man  upon  the 

Cross 
Moan'd, — and  beheld  no  further  down  the 

Void 
Than  those  who  gather'd  round  to  see  Him 

die. 

Ay, — but  the  Soul,  being  weather-wise,  can 

guess 

The  morrow  by  the  sunset,  can  it  not  ? 
And  there  are  signs  about  the  path  whereon 
I  guide  the  foolish  Titan,  that  imply 
Darkness  and  hidden  dangers.     All  these 

last 

I  smile  at ;  but,  O  Soul  within  my  Soul, 
'Tis  he,  the  foolish  Titan's  self,  I  fear  : 
For,  though  I  have  a  spell  upon  him  now, 
And  say  it,  and  he  follows,  any  morn 
(Awakening  from  his  torpor  as  he  woke 
One  bloody  morn  in  Paris  and  went  wild), 
He  may  put    out    his    frightful    strength 

again, 

And  with  one  mighty  shock  of  agony 
Bring  down  the  roof  of  Empire  on  my 

head. 

He  loves  me  now,  and  to  my  song  of  war 
Murmurs  deep  undertone,  and  as  he  goes 
Fondles  the  hand  that  leads ;  but  day  by 

day 

Must  I  devise  new  songs  and  promises, 
More  bloody  incantation,  lest  he  rouse 
And  rend  me.  Oftentimes  it  seems  he 

leads, 

I  follow, — he  the  Tyrant,  I  the  Slave, — 
And  it,  perchance,  were  better  had  I  paused 
At  Amiens,  nor  with  terrible  words  and 

ways 
Led  him  thus  far,  still  whispering  in  his 

ear 
That  he  at  last  shall  look  on  '  Liberty.' 

Liberty?    Have  I  lull' d  him  with  a  Lie? 
Or  shall  the  Titan  Spirit  of  man  be  led 
To  look  again  upon  the  face  of  her, 
His  first  last  love,  a  spirit  woman-shaped, 
Whom  in  the  sweet  beginning  he  beheld, 
Adored,  loved,  lost,  pursued,  whom  still  in 

tears 
He  yearns  for  ;  in  whose  name  alone  all 

Kings 
Have  led  and  guided  him  a  space  and 

throve, 
Denying  whom  all  Kings  have  died  in  turn, 


POLITICAL  MYSTICS. 


= 


Whose    memory    is    perfume,    light    and 

dream, 
Whose  hope  is  incense,  music,  bliss,  and 

tears, 
To  him  whose  great  heart  with  immortal 

beat 

Measures  the  dark  march  of  Humanity. 
I  do  believe  this  Shape  he  saw  and  loved 
Was  but  a  Phantasm,  unsubstantial,  strange, 
A  vision  never  to  be  held  and  had, 
A  spectral  woman  ne'er  to  be  enjoyed  ; 
But  such  a  thought  whisper' d  into  his  ear 
Were  rank  as  blasphemy  cried  up  at  God. 
The  name  is  yet  a  madness,  a  supreme 
Ecstasy  and  delirium  !    All  things 
That  cry  it,  move  the  tears  into  the  eyes 
Of  the  sad  Titan.    Echoed  from  the  heights 
Of  France,  it  made  him  mad,  and  in  his 

rage 

He  tore  at  Earth's  foundations.     Evermore 
He  turns  his  suffering  orbs  upon  the  dark, 
Uplifts  his  gentle  hands  to  the  chill  stars, 
Pauses  upon  the  path,  and  in  the  ear 
Of  him  wholeadeth  cries  with  broken  voice, 
'  How  long,  how  long,  how  long  ? ' 

And  unto  him, 

This  Titan,  I,  supreme  of  all  the  earth, 
Am  but  a  pigmy  (let  me  whisper  it !) 
And  I  have  won  upon  him  with  strange 

lies, 

And  he  has  suffered  all  indignities, 
Bonds,  chains,  a  band  to  blindfold  both  his 

eyes, 
Patient  and  meek,  since  I  have  sworn  at 

last 
To  lead  him  to  the  trysting-place  where 

waits 
His    constant    love    and    most    immortal 

Bride. 

Still  in  mine  ears  he  murmureth  her  name, 
And  follows.     I  have  le     him  on  through 

fire, 
Blood,  darkness,  tears,   and  still  he  hath 

been  tame, 
Though   ofttimes    shrinking    from    things 

horrible, 

And  on  and  on  he  follows  even  now, 
Blindfold,   with    slower    and    less    willing 

feet— 

I  fear  with  slower  and  less  willing  feet — 
And  still  I    ead,  through  lurid  light  from 

heaven, 


Whither  I  know  not.  '  Whither  ! '  Often- 
times 

My  great  heart  fails,  lest  on  some  morn  we 
reach 

That  poital  o'er  which  flaming  Arch  is 
writ, 

'  All  hope  abandon  ye  who  enter  here  ! ' 

And  he,  perceiving  he  hath  been  befool'd, 

Will  cast  me  from  him  with  his  last  fierce 
breath 

Down  through  the  gate  into  some  pit  of 
doom. 

Meantime  he  follows  smiling.    O  Famulus  ! 
Could  I  but  dream  that  she,  the  Shape  he 

seeks, 
Whom  men  name  Liberty,  and  gods  name 

Peace, 
Were  human,  could  inhale  this  dense  dark 

air, 
Could  live  and  dwell  on  earth,  and  rear  the 

race, 
'Twere   well, — for    by    Almighty    God    I 

swear 
I   would  find  out  a  means  to  join  their 

hands 
And  bless  them,  and  abide  their  grateful 

doom. 

But  she  he  seeks  I  know  to  be  a  dream, 
A  vision  of  the  rosy  morning  mist, 
A  creature  foreign  to  the  earth  and  sea, 
Ne'er  to  be  look'd  upon  by  mortal  soul 
Out  of  the  mortal  vision.     Wherefore  still 
I  fear  this  Titan.     I  can  never  appease 
His  hungry  yearning  wholly.     He  will  bear 
No  future  chains,  no  closer  blindfolding, 
And  if  a  fatal  whisper  reach  his  ear, 
I  and  all  mine  are  wholly  wreck'd  and  lost. 
Yet  is  this  Titan  old  so  weak  of  wit, 
So  senile-minded  though  so  huge  of  frame, 
So  deaf  to  warning  voices  when  they  cry, 
That,  should  no  angel  light  from  heaven 

an    speak 

The  mad  truth  in  his  ear,  he  will  proceed 
Patiently  as  a  lamb.     He  counteth  not 
The  weary  years  ;  his  eyes  are  shut  indeed 
With  a  half-smile,  to  see  the  mystic  Face 
Pictured  upon  his  brain  ;  only  at  times 
He  lifteth  lids  and  gazeth  wildly  round, 
Clutching  at  the  cold  hand  of  him  that 

guides, — 

But  with  a  whisper  he  is  calm'd  again, 
Relapsing  back  into  his  gentle  dream. 


TITAN  AND   AVATAR. 


301 


0  he  is  patient,  and  he  will  await 
Century  after  century  in  peace, 

So  that  he  hears  sweet  songs  of  her  he 

seeks, 

So  that  his  guides  do  speak  to  him  of  her, 
So  that  he  thinks  to  clasp  her  in  the  end. 

The  end  ?    Sweet  sprite,  the  end  is  what  I 

fear— 

If  I  might  live  for  ever,  Famulus  ! — 
Why  am  I  not  immortal  and  a  god  ? 

1  have  caused  tears  enough,  as  bitter  tears 
As  ever  by  the  rod  divine  were  struck 
Out  of  this  rock  of  earth.     O  for  a  spell 
Wherewith  to  cheat  old  Death,  whose  feet 

I  hear 

Afar  off,  for  I  hate  the  bony  touch 
Of  hands  that  change  the  purple  for  the 

shroud  ! 

Yet  I  could  go  in  peace  (since  all  must  go) 
So  that  my  seed  were  risen  and  in  its  eyes 
I  saw  assurance  of  imperial  thoughts, 
Strength,  and  a  will  to  grasp  the  thunder- 
bolt 
I    leave   unhuifd    beside    the    Olympian 

throne. 

Ah  God,  to  die,  and  into  the  dark  gloom 
Drag  that  throne  with  me,  to  the  hollow 

laugh 

Of  the  awakening  Titan  !    All  my  peers 
Are  ciphers,    all    my   brethren    are    mere 

Kings 

Of  the  old  fashion,  only  strengthen'd  now 
By  my  strong  sunshine  ;  reft  of  that,  they 

die, 
Like  sunflowers  in  the  darkness.     Death, 

old  Death, 

Touch  me  this  day,  or  any  dark  day  soon, 
And  I  and  mine  are  like  the  miser's  hoard, 
A  glorious  and  a  glittering  pile  of  gold 
Changed  to  a  fluttering  heap  of  wither' d 

leaves. 

This  must  not  be.     No,   I  must  have  a 

child. 

I  must  be  firm  and  from  my  bed  divorce 
The  barren  woman.     Furthermore,  to  link 
My  throne  with  all  the  lesser  thrones  of 

earth, 
I  must  wed  the  seed  of  Kings.   Which  seed, 

which  child  ? 

Which  round  ripe  armful  of  new  destiny  ? 
Which  regal  mould  for  my  imperial  issue  ? 


Thine,  fruitful  house  of  Hapsburg  ?  Russia, 

thine  ? 

The  greater,  not  the  lesser.     I  must  wed 
Seed  of  the  Czar,  and  so  with  nuptial  rites 
Unite  the  empires  of  the  East  and  West. 

Fill,  fill,  my  Famulus,  the  golden  cup 
I  thirst  for  ;  all  the  peril  as  I  gaze 
Hath  faded.     I  no  more  with  fluttering  lips 
Cry  '  Whither? '  but  with  hands  outstretch' d 

I  watch 

Rubily  glistening  glory.     It  shall  thrive  ! 
King  of   the  West,    sowing  the  seed  of 

Kings 

First  of  the  Empire  of  the  Golden  Age, 
The  sleeping  Titan,  and  the  quiet  Sea  ; 
Light  of  the  Lotus  and  all  mortal  eyes, 
Whose  orbit  nations  like  to  heliotropes 
Shall  follow  with  lesser  circle  and  sweet 
sound! 

in. 
THE  ELEMENTAL  QUEST. 

SEMI-CHORUS  I. 

FORM  of  her  the  Titan  full  of  patience 
Sees  amid  the  darkness  of  the  nations  ; 
Voice  of  her  whose  sound  in  the  beginning 
Came  upon  him  desolate  and  sinning  ; 
Face  and  fairest  form  of  her  whose  gleam- 
ing 

Soothes  his  gentle  spirit  into  dreaming ; 
Spirit  !  whom  the  Titan  sees  above  him  ! 

SEMI-CHORUS  II. 

Gentle  eyes  that  shine  and  seem  to  love 

him  ! 

Tender  touch,  the  thrill  of  her  sweet  fingers, 
Thrill  that  reach' d  his  soul  and  burns  and 

lingers  ; 
Breath  of  her,  and  scent  of  her,  and  bliss 

of  her ; 
Dream  of  her,  and  smile  of  her,  and  kiss  of 

her! 
Come  again,  and  speak,  and  bend  above 

him, 
Spirit  that  came  once  and  seemed  to  love 

him. 

THE  TITAN. 

How  long,  how  long  ? 

SEMI-CHORUS  I. 

Courage,  great  heart  and  strong, 
Break  not,  but  beat  low  chime 


302 


POLITICAL   MYSTICS. 


To  the  dark  flow  of  Time  ; 
Follow  the  path  foot-worn, 
Sad  night  and  dewy  morn, 
Under  the  weary  sun 
Follow,  O  mighty  one  ; 
Under  dim  moon  and  star  ! 

THE  TITAN. 

Whither  ?    How  far,  how  far  ? 

SEMI-CHORUS  I. 

Spirit  of  the  fathomless  abysses, 
Spirit  that  he  looked  upon  and  misses, 
Free    and    fair    and    perfect,    more    than 

human, 

Bringing  love  and  peace-gifts  like  a  woman  ; 
Come  unto  him,  lessen  to  his  pleading. 

SEMI-CHORUS   II. 

Mark  his  patience,  hear  his  gentle  inter- 
ceding ; 

O'er  mountain  upon  mountain  left  behind 
thee, 

He  hath  cheerly  climb'd  in  vain  to  find 
thee: 

Wild  waters  he  hath  cross'd,  wild  sea  and 
river, 

All  countries  he  hath  traversed,  faithful  ever, 

Ever  hoping,  ever  waiting,  never  seeing. 

CHORUS. 

Spirit  seen  in  some  long  darken'd  being, 
Spirit  that  he  saw  at  the  world's  portal, 
Saw,  and  knew,  and  loved,  and  felt  im- 
mortal, 

Spirit  that  he  wearies  for  and  misses, 
Answer  from  the  fathomless  abysses  ! 

THE  TITAN. 

How  long,  how  long? 

SEMI-CHORUS   I. 

Courage,  O  Titan  strong  ! 
Courage,  from  place  to  place 
Still  follow  the  voice  and  the  face  ! 


THE  TITAN. 


Whither? 


A  VOICE  AFAR. 

O  hither ! 


THE  TITAN. 


Whither? 


SEMI-CHORUS   I. 

Voice  of  her  he  follows  in  dumb  pleasure, 
Camest  thou  from  the  earth  or  from  the 

azure  ; 
Camest    thou  from  the  pastures  on    the 

mountains, 
From  the  ocean,  from  the  rivers,  from  the 

fountains, 
From  the  vapours  blowing  o'er  him  while 

he  hearkens, 
From  the  ocean  hoar  that  beats  his  feet  and 

darkens, 
From  the  star  that  on  the  sea-fringe  melts 

and  glistens  ? 

SEMI-CHORUS   II. 

O    homeless    voice,    he    maddens    as    he 

listens, 

O  voice  divine,  his  wild  lips  part  asunder  ; 
He  speaketh,  and  his  words  are    a  low 

thunder. 

THE  TITAN. 

Whither,  O  whither? 


VOICE  AFAR. 


Hither ! 


THE  TITAN. 
Whither?     Wherefore,   while    I    wait    in 

patience, 

Mock  her  voice,  O  voices  of  the  nations  ; 
Wherefore  by  night  and  day, 
Where'er  my  slow  feet  stray, 
Trouble  all  hours  with  wild  reverberations  ? 

Mountain  winds,  ye  name  her  name  unto 

me  ! 

Flowing  rivers  glance  and  thrill  it  through 
me ! 

Earth,  water,  air,  and  sky, 
Name  her  as  I  go  by  ! 
With  her  dim  ghost  the  floating  clouds 
pursue  me. 

All  of  these  have  seen  her  face  and  love 

her, 

Earth  beneath  and  heaven  that  bends  above 
her; 

The  rain-wreck  and  the  storm 
Mimic  the  one  fair  form, 
The  whirlwind  knows  her  name  and  cries  it 
over. 


TITAN  AND  AVATAR. 


303 


Flowers  are  sown  by  her  bright  foot,  wher- 
ever 

They  are  flashing  past  by  mere  and  river  ; 
Birds  in  the  forest  stir, 
Singing  mad  praise  of  her  ; 
All  green  paths  know  her,  though  she  flies 
for  ever. 

CHORUS. 

Joy  of  wind  and    wave  and    cloud    and 

blossom, 
Pause  at  last,  and  fall  upon  his  bosom  ! 

THE  TITAN. 

None  behold  her  twice,  but  having  conn'd 

her 

While   she    flashes    past    with    feet   that 
wander, 

Remember  the  blest  gleam, 
And  grow  by  it,  and  dream, 
And  fondle  the  sweet  memory,  and  ponder. 

All  have  known  her,  and  yet  none  possess 

her; 

None  behold  her,  yet  all  things  caress  her  ; 
The  warmth  of  her  white  feet, 
Where  it  doth  fall  so  sweet, 
Abides  for  ever  there,  and  all  things  bless 
her. 

Faster  than  the  prophesying  swallow, 
Fast  by  wood  and  sea  and  hill  and  hollow, 

Sought  by  all  things  that  be, 

But  most  of  all  by  me, 
She  flieth  none  know  whither,  and  I  follow. 

SEMI-CHORUS   I. 

O  wherefore,  radiant  one, 
Under  the  moon  and  sun, 
Glimmer  away? 

VOICE  AFAR. 

Here  on  the  heights  I  stay  ; 
Come  hither. 

THE  TITAN. 

Whither? 


VOICE   AFAR. 


O  hither ! 


CHORUS. 

Form  of  her  the  Titan  full  of  patience 
Sees  amid  the  darkness  of  the  nations  ; 


Voice  of  her  whose  song  in  the  beginning 

Came  upon  him  desolate  and  sinning  ; 

Face  and  fairest  form  of  her  whose  gleam- 
ing 

Soothes  his  gentle  spirit  into  dreaming  ; 

Touch  of  her,  the  thrill  of  her  quick  fingers, 

Thrill  that  reach'd  his  soul  and  burns  and 
lingers ; 

Soul  beyond  his  soul,  yet  ever  near  it, 

His  heart's  home,  and  haven  of  his  spirit ; 

Joy  of  wind  and  wave  and  cloud  and 
blossom, 

Pause  at  last,  and  fall  upon  his  bosom  ! 

IV. 

THE  ELEMENTAL  DOOM. 


are   passing  across  our 


CHORUS  OF  SPIRITS. 

STRANGE  hands 

eyes, 
Before  our  souls  strange  visions  rise 

And  dim  shapes  flash  and  flee. 
The  mists  of  dream  are  backward  roll'd — 
As  from  a  mountain,  we  behold 

What  is,  and  yet  shall  be. 

A  VOICE. 

Speak,  while  the  depths  of  dream  unfold, 
What  is  it  that  ye  see  ? 

SEMI-CHORUS   I. 

'Tis  vision.     Lo,  before  us  stands, 
Casting  his  shaf'e  on  many  lands, 
The  mighty  Titan,  by  the  sea 
Of  tempest-tost  humanity ; 
And  to  the  earth,  and  sea,  and  sky, 
He  uttereth  a  thunder-cry 

Out  of  his  breaking  heart, 
And  the  fierce  elements  reply, 

And  earth  is  cloven  apart. 

SEMI-CHORUS  II. 

Like  sparks  blown  from  a  forge,  the  spheres 
Drift  o'er  us  ;— all  our  eyes  and  ears 

Are  full  of  fire  and  sound. 
With  blood  about  him  blown  like  rain, 
We  see  how  on  a  darken'd  plain 

Stands  the  Avatar,  crown'd. 
Silent  he  waits,  and  white  as  death, 

Looks  in  the  Titan's  eyes. 
They  stand — the  black  sky  holds  its  breath — 

The  deep  Sea  stills  its  cries, 
The  mad  storm  hushes  driving  past, 


304 


POLITICAL   MVSTICS. 


The  sick  stais  pause  and  gaze — the  blast, 
The  wind-rent  rain,  the  vapours  dark, 
Like  dead  things  crouch,  and  wait,   and 

hark; 

And  lo  !  those  twain  alone  and  dumb 
Loom  desolate  and  strange. 

SEMI-CHORUS   I. 

Is  the  time  come? 

SEMI-CHORUS  II. 

The  time  is  come. 

CHORUS. 
Titan,  to  thy  revenge ! 

SEMI-CHORUS   I. 

O  look  and  listen  ! 

His  great  eyes  glisten, 

Like  an  oak  the  storm  rendeth 

He  swayeth  and  bendeth, 

With  lips  torn  asunder 

He  shakes,  but  no  thunder 

Comes  thence. 

SEMI-CHORUS   II. 

While  still  nigh  him, 
With  smiles  that  defy  him, 
The  crown'd  one  is  standing, — 
His  pale  look  commanding 
A  tigress,  that  crouching 
Beneath  him  and  touching 

His  feet  with  low  cries, 
Waits,  fiercely  betraying 
Blood's  thirst  yet  obeying 

His  eyes  ! 

CHORUS. 
Is  he  doom'd? 

A   VOICE. 

He  is  doom'd. 


CHORUS. 


VOICE. 


Oh,  by  whom  ? 


By  the  child  yet  unborn  in  the  womb, 
By  the  dead  laid  to  sleep  in  the  tomb, 
He  is  doom'd,  he  is  doom'd. 


CHORUS. 


Speak  his  doom  ! 


THE  TITAN. 

Napoleon  !  Napoleon  ! 

THE  AVATAR. 

Who  cries  ? 

THE  TITAN. 

I,  child  of  the  earth  and  the  skies, 
I,  Titan,  the  mystical  birth, 
Whose  voice  since  the  morning  of  earth 
Hath  doom'd  such  as  thou  in  the  end, 
Speak  thy  doom ! 

THE   AVATAR. 

Speak  !     I  smile  and  attend. 

THE   TITAN. 

Because  thou  hast  with  lies  and  incanta- 
tions, 

With  broken  vows  and  false  asseverations, 
For  thine  own  ends  accurst, 
Betrayed  me  from  the  first, 
I  speak,  and  doom  thee,  in  the  name  of 
nations. 

Because  I  have  wander'd  like  a  great  stream 

flowing 
From  its  own  channel  and  through  strange 

gulfs  going, 

So  that  for  years  and  years 
I  must  retrace  in  tears 
The  black  and    barren    pathway    of   thy 
showing. 

Because  one  further  step  after  thy  leadinjr 
Had  hurl'd  me  down   to  doom  past  inter- 
ceding, 

So  that  I  never  again, 

In  passion  or  in  pain, 
Might  look  upon  the  face  I  follow  p^ading. 

Because  thou  hast  led  me  blind,  knee-deep 

through  slaughter, 
Through  fields  of  blood  that  wash'd  our 

way  like  water, 
Because  in  that  divine 
Name  I  adore,  and  mine, 
Thou  hast  bruised  Earth,  and  to  desolation 
brought  her. 

Because  thou  hast  been  a  liar  and  blas- 
phemer, 
Deeming  me  triply  dotard  and  a  dreamer. 


TITAN  AND   AVATAR. 


305 


Because  thy  hand  at  length 
Would  strike  me  in  my  strength, 
Me,  deathless  !  me,  diviner  and  supremer 

Because  all  voices  of  the  earth  and  azure, 
All  things  that  breathe,  all  things  curst  for 

thy  pleasure, 

All  poor  dead  men  who  died 
To  feed  thy  bitter  pride, 
All  living,  all  dead,  cry — mete  to  him  our 
measure ! 

Because  thou  hast  slain  Kings,  and  as  a 

token 
Stolen  their  crowns  and  worn  them,  having 

spoken 

My  curse  against  the  same  ; 
Because  all  things  proclaim 
That  thou  didst  swear  a  troth,  and  that  'tis 
broken. 

By  her  whom  thou  didst  swear  under  God's 

heaven 
To  find  ;   by  her  who  being  found  was 

driven 

O'er  earth,  air,  sky,  and  sea, 
Through  desolate  ways,  by  thee, 
With  voice  appealing  and  with    raiment 
riven ! 

Because  thou  hast  turned  upon  and  violated 
Her  soul  to  whom  thou  first  wert  conse- 
crated, 

Because,  thro'  thy  soul's  lie 
And  life's  delusion,  I 

Must  wait  more  ages,  who  have  wept  and 
waited 

Since    the    beginning.      By    the    soul    of 

Patience, 

Sick  of  thy  face  and  its  abominations, 
I  speak  on  thine  and  thee 
The  doom  of  Destiny, 
Hear  it,   and  die,   hear  in  the  name  of 
nations  ! 

SEMI-CHORUS  I. 

Is  he  doom'd  ? 

SEMI-CHORUS  II. 

He  is  doom'd.     'Tis  the  end. 


Napoleon  1 


THE  TITAN. 


THE   AVATAR. 

Speak  !  I  attend. 

THE  TITAN. 

Utter  the  doom  thou  dost  crave. 

THE  AVATAR. 
'Tis  spoken.     A  shroud  and  a  grave. 

THE  TITAN. 

O  voices  of  earth,  air,  and  sky, 
Hear  ye  his  doom,  and  reply. 

HUMAN  VOICES. 

Death  is  sleep.     Let  him  wake  and  not  die. 

THE   TITAN. 

Because  by  thee  all    comfort    hath  been 

taken, 
So  that  the  Earth  rocks  still  forlorn  and 

shaken, 

Staring  at  the  sad  skies 
With  sleepless  aching  eyes, 
Thou  shall  not  die,  but  wait  and  watch  ana 
waken. 

This  is  thy  doom.    Lone  as  a  star  thy  being 
Shall  see  the  waves  break  and  the  drift-cloud 

fleeing, 

Hear  the  wind  cry  and  grow, 
Watch  the  great  waters  flow, 
And  seeing  all,  shine  hid  from  all  men's 
seeing. 

Here  on  this  Isle  amid  a  sea  of  sorrow 

I  cast  thee  down.     Black  night  and  weary 

morrow, 

Lie  there  alone,  forgot, 
So  doom'd  and  pitied  not ; 
^et  all  things  watch  thy  face,  and  thy  face 
borrow 

The  look  of  these  mad  elements  that  ever 
Strike,  scream,  and  mingle,  sever  and  dis- 
sever ; 

Gather  from  air  and  sea 
The  thirst  of  all  things  free, 
The  up-looking  want,  the  hunger  ceasing 
never. 

All  shall  forget  thee.     Thou  shalt  hear  the 

nations 

Hocking  with  music  light  and  acclamation? 

X 


3o6 


POLITICAL   MYSTICS. 


To  kiss  his  royal  feet 
Who  sitteth  in  thy  Seat, 
Surrounded  by  the  slaves  of  lofty  stations. 

A  rock  in  the  lone  Sea  shall  be  thy  pillow. 
In  the  wide  waste  of  gray  wave  and  green 

billow, 

The  days  shall  rise  and  set 
In  silence,  and  forget 

To  sun  thee,— a  black  shape  beneath  a 
willow 

Watching    the    weary  waters   with    heart 

bleeding  ; 
Or  dreaming  cheek  upon   thy  hand  ;    or 

reading 

The  book  upon  thy  knee  ; 
And  ever  as  the  sea 

Moans,  raising  eyes  to  the  still  heavens, 
and  pleading  : 

Till  like  a  wave  worn  out  with  silent  break- 
ing 

Or  like  a  wind  blown  weary  ;    thou,    for- 
saking 

Thy  tenement  of  clay, 
Shalt  wear  and  waste  away, 
And  grow  a  portion  of  the  ever-waking 

Tumult  of   cloud  and  sea.      Feature    by 

feature 

Losing  the  likeness  of  the  living  creature, 
Returning  back  thy  form 
To  its  elements  of  storm, 
Thou  shalt  dissolve  in  the  great  wreck  of 
Nature. 


SEMI-CHORUS   I. 


Is  it  done  ? 


SEMI-CHORUS   II. 

It  is  done. 

SEMI-CHORUS   I. 

Look  again. 

SEMI-CHORUS   II. 

I  see  on  the  rock  in  the  main 
The  Shape  sitting  dark  by  the  sea, 
And  his  shade,  and  the  shade  of  the  tree, 
Where  he  sitteth,  are  pencil'd  jet-black 
On  the  luminous  sky  at  his  back  ; 
But  lo  !  while  I  gaze,  from  the  sky 
Like  phantoms  they  vanish  and  die  : — 
All  is  dark. 


SEMI-CHORUS  I. 

Look  again. 


SEMI-CHORUS   II. 

Hark,  Ohark! 

SEMI-CHORUS  I. 

A  shrill  cry  is  piercing  the  dark — 
Like  the  multitudinous  moan 
Of  the  waves  as  they  clash,  comes  a 
From  afar — 

THE  TITAN. 

What  is  this,  O  ye  free  ? 

SEMI-CHORUS  II. 

He  has  gone  like  a  wave  of  the  sea— 
Day  dieth,  the  light  falleth  red,— 
O  Titan,  behold  he  is  dead  !  .  .  . 

CHORUS. 

Strange  hands  are  passed  across  our  eyes, 
Before  our  souls  strange  visions  rise, 

And  dim  shapes  flash  and  flee  ; 
The  mists  of  dream  are  backward  rolled — 
As  from  a  mountain  we  behold 

That  Island  in  the  sea. 

SEMI-CHORUS  I. 

Now  bow  thy  face  upon  thy  breast, 
O  Titan,  and  bemoan  thy  quest ! 
O  look  not  thither  with  thine  eyes, 
But  lift  them  to  the  constant  skies  ! 

THE  TITAN. 

What  do  ye  see  that  thus  to  me 
Ye  turn  and  smile  so  bitterly  ? 

SEMI-CHORUS  I. 

'Tis  vision.     On  that  island  bare 
Sits  one  with  face  divinely  fair, 

And  pensive  smiling  lips  ; 
And  on  her  lap  the  proud  head  lies. 
Pale  with  the  seal  on  its  proud  eyes 

Of  Death's  divine  eclipse  ; 
All  round  is  darkness  of  the  sea, 
And  sorrow  of  the  cloud. 

SEMI-CHORUS  II. 

Yet  she 

Is  making  with  her  heavenly  face 
Sweetness  like  sunlight  ;  and  the  place 


TITAN  AND  AVATAR— THE   FOOL    OF  DESTINY. 


307 


Grows  luminous  ;  and  the  world  afar 
Looks  thither  as  to  some  new  star, 
All  wondering  ;  and  with  lips  of  death 
Men  name  one  name  beneath  their  breath, 
Not  cursing  as  of  yore,  for  now 
All  the  inexorable  brow 
Is  mouldering  marble. 

SEMI-CHORUS  I. 

Hark,  O  hark  ! 
A  silver  voice  divides  the  dark  ! 

A  VOICE. 

Hither,  O  hither ! 

ANOTHER   VOICE. 

Whither? 

FIRST  VOICE. 

0  sweet  is  sleep  if  sleep  be  deep, 
And  sweetest  far  to  eyes  that  weep  ; 
He  who  upon  my  breast  doth  creep 
Shall  close  his  weary  eyes  and  sleep. 

Yet  he  who  seeks  me  shall  not  find, 
And  he  who  chains  me  shall  not  bind  ; 
For  fleeter-footed  than  the  wind 

1  still  elude  all  human  kind. 

But  when,  soul-weary  of  the  chase, 
Falleth  some  man  of  mortal  race, 
1  pause — I  find  him  in  his  place, 
I  pause— I  bless  his  dying  face  ! 

Whatsoever  man  he  be, 
I  take  his  head  upon  my  knee, 
I  give  him  words  and  kisses  three, 
Kissing  I  whisper,  '  Thou  art  free  ! 

0  free  is  sleep  if  sleep  be  deep  !— 

1  soothe  them  sleeping,  and  I  heap 
Greenness  above  them,  and  they  weep 
No  longer,  but  are  free,  and  sleep. 

O  royal  face  and  royal  head  ! 

0  lips  that  thunder'd  !     O  eyes  red 
With  nights  of  watch  !  O  great  soul  dead 
Thy  blood  is  water,  thy  heart  lead  ! 

They  doom'd  thee  in  my  name,  but  see  ! 

1  doom  thee  not,  but  set  thee  free  ; 
Balm  for  all  hearts  is  shed  by  me, 
&nd  for  all  spirits,  liberty. 


He  finds  me  least  who  loves  me  best, 
His  Soul  in  an  eternal  quest 
Wails  still,  while  one  by  one  are  prest 
Tyrants  that  hate  me,  to  my  breast. 

The  sad  days  fly — the  slow  years  creep, 
And  he  alone  doth  never  sleep. 
Would  he  might  slumber  and  not  weep. 
O  free  is  sleep,  if  sleep  be  deep. 


THE  TITAN. 


Irene  ! 


THE  FOOL    OF  DESTINY. 

A   CHORIC   DRAMA. 

Scene.—  THE  CHATEAU  OF  WILHELMS- 

HOHE,  IN  CASSEL. 

German  Citizens  -walking  in  the  Gardens 
without. 

FIRST  CITIZEN. 

How  fine  it  is  to  lounge  in  talk 
Together,  down  this  long  green  walk 
While  russet  trees  to  left  and  right 
Snaring  the  rosy  shafts  of  light 
Shade  them  to  silver,  till  they  glow 
There  on  the  roof  of  the  chateau 
Gleaming  bright  ruby ! 

SECOND   CITIZEN. 

Not  too  near — 
The  place  is  private. 

FIRST  CITIZEN. 

Didst  thou  hear 

The  news  ?    Another  glorious  blow 
For  Fatherland  ! 

SECOND  CITIZEN. 

To-night  at  five 
I  saw  the  courier  arrive, 
Bringing  the  news  to  him  who  waits 
Yonder. — O  he  may  thank  the  fates 
He  sits  so  snug,  the  man  of  sin  ! — 
How  cunningly,  before  the  end, 
The  Snake  contrived  to  save  his  skin  ! 

FIRST  CITIZEN. 

Thou  art  too  hard  upon  him,  friend. 
He  saw  that  all  his  cards  were  played, 


308 


POLITICAL   MYSTICS. 


- 

Ight 


And  so,  to  save  more  bloodshed,  strayed 
Into  the  cage. 

SECOND  CITIZEN. 

A  cage,  indeed  ! 

Where  from  a  gold  plate  he  may  feed 
Of  all  earth's  dainties,  while  afar 
France,  'neath  the  tramping  feet  of  War, 
Bleeds  like  a  winepress.     There  he  lolls, 
Butcher  of  bodies  and  of  souls, 
Smiling,  and  sees  the  storm  blow  by  ! 

FIRST  CITIZEN. 

What  could  he  do? 

SECOND  CITIZEN. 

Could  he  not  die? 

FIRST  CITIZEN. 

Die?    Sentiment !     If  I  were  he 
I'd  bless  the  stars  which  set  me  free 
From  that  foul-hearted  Whore's  embrace, 
France,  with  her  fickle  painted  face. 
Better  in  Germany  to  dine, 
Smoke  one's  cigar,  and  sip  one's  wine  ; 
And  in  good  time,  like  most,  no  doubt, 
Who  have  worn  their  wicked  members  out, 
Repent,  and  be  absolved,  and  then 
Die  in  one's  bed,  like  smaller  men  ! 


SECOND   CITIZEN. 


Thou  cynic ! 


Is  happy  ? 


FIRST  CITIZEN  S  WIFE. 

Dost  thou  think  that  he 

FIRST  CITIZEN. 


Why  not?  .  .  .  Possibly, 
My  dear,  'tis  something  after  all 
To  know  the  worst  that  can  befall ; 
To  know,  whatever  joy  or  sorrow 
Fate  is  preparing  for  the  morrow, 
It  cannot  make  more  dark  the  lot 
One  bears  to-night.     Happy  !    Why  not  ? 
Happy  as  most  of  our  poor  kind. 

WIFE. 

He  hath  so  much  upon  his  mind ! 

FIRST  CITIZEN. 

A  woman's  thought ; — but  hark  to  me, 
And  take  this  for  philosophy — 


Beyond  a  given  amount  of  pain, 
The  spirit  suffers  not  a  grain. 
What  stuff  we  humble  folk  are  taught 
Of  monarchs  and  their  weight  of  thought ! 
Why,  thou  and  I,  and  Jack  and  Jill, 
Feel  just  as  much  of  good  and  ill, 
Of  life  and  strife,  of  thought  and  care, 
As  he  who  sitteth  musing  there  ! 

SECOND  CITIZEN. 
I  saw  him  walking,  yesterday. 
He  is  much  aged  of  late,  they  say — 
He  stoops  much,  and  his  features  are 
Gray  as  the  ash  of  the  cigar 
He  smokes  for  ever. 

FIRST  CITIZEN  (to  wife). 

Come,  my  d 

Let's  home  !     'Tis  growing  chilly  here  ; 
So  ! — take  my  arm.     Yes,  I  contend 
It  matters  little  in  the  end 
If  one  be  Beggar,  Priest,  or  King— 
The  whip's  for  all— the  pang,  the  sting  ! 
Dost  thou  remember — canst  forget  ? 
When  all  our  goods  were  seized  for  debt, 
In  Friedberg  ?  Claim  was  heap'd  on  claim- 
Blow  came  on  blow — shame  follow'd  sha 
And  last  to  crown  our  dire  distress, 
Thy  brother  Hans'  hard-heartedness. 
Think  you  /  felt  a  whit  less  sad, 
Less  thunderstruck,  less  fierce,  less  mad, 
Than  yonder  melancholy  Man, 
When,  through  the  dark  cloud  of  Sedan, 
He,  as  a  star  that  shoots  by  night, 
Swept  from  his  sphere  of  lonely  light, 
And  at  the  feet  of  Wilhelm  lay 
Glow-worm-like,  in  the  garish  day 
Of  conquest  ?    Well,  well !  wait  and  see — 
I  rose  again,  and  so  may  he. 
The  world  is  but  a  Play,  tho'  ye 
Dear  creatures  take  it  seriously ! 
I  cannot  pity  from  my  heart 
The  player  of  the  Monarch's  part, 
For  at  the  worst  he  never  knows 
The  famish'd  Body's  bitter  throes. 
I  pity  more  with  all  my  soul 
The  filler  of  the  Soldier's  role, 
Who  feels  the  ball,  and  with  a  groan 
Sinks  in  the  bloody  ranks  unknown, 
And  while  the  far-off  cannon  cries, 
Kisses  his  sweetheart's  hair,  and  dies. 

[Exeunt. 


" 


THE  FOOL    OF  DESTINY. 


309 


NAPOLEON.    A  PHYSICIAN. 

PHYSICIAN. 

The  sickness  is  no  sickness  of  the  flesh, 
No  ailment  such  as  common  mortals  feel, 
But  spiritual :  'tis  thy  fiery  thought 
Drying  the  wholesome  humour  of  the  veins, 
Consuming  the  brain's  substance,  and  from 

thence, 
As  flame  spreads,   through  each  muscle, 

vein,  and  nerve, 

Reaching  the  vital  members.    If  your  High- 
ness 
Could  stoop  from  the  tense  strain  of  great 

affairs 

To  books  and  music,  or  such  idle  things 
As  wing  the  weary  hours  for  lesser  men  ! 
Turn  not  thine  eyes  to  France  ;  receive  no 

news : 

Shut  out  the  blinding  gleam  of  battle  :  rest 
From  all  fierce  ache  of  thought ;  and  for  a 

time 
Let  the  wild  world  go  by. 

NAPOLEON. 

Enough,  old  friend  : 
Thine  is  most  wholesome  counsel.     I  will 

seek 
To  make  this  feverish  mass  of  nerve  and 

thew, 

This  thing  of  fretful  heart-beats, 
Fulfil  its  functions  more  mechanically. 
Farewell. 

PHYSICIAN. 

Farewell,  Sire.     Brighter  waking  thoughts, 
And  sweeter  dreams,  attend  thee  !      [Exit. 

NAPOLEON. 

All  things  change 

Their  summer  livery  for  the  autumn  tinge 
Of   wind-blown   withering    leaves.      That 

man  is  faithful, — 
I  have  been  fed  from  his  cold  palm  for 

years, 

And  I  believe,  so  strongly  use  and  wont 
Fetter  such  natures,  he  would  die  to  serve 

me  ; 

Yet  do  I  see  in  his  familiar  eyes 
The  fatal  pain  of  pity.     I  have  lain 
At  Death's  door  divers  times,  and  he  hath 

slowly, 
With  subtle  cunning  and  most  confident 

skill, 


Woo'd  back  my  breath,  but  never  even 

then, 
Though  God's  Hand  held  me  down,  did  he 

regard  me 
With  so   intense  a  gaze    as    now,   when 

smitten 
By  the  mail'd  hand  of  Man.     I  am  not 

dead! 

Not  dying  !  only  sick, — as  all  are  sick 
Who  feel  the  mortal  prison-house  too  weak 
For  the  free  play  of  Soul !      I  eat  and 

drink — 
I    laugh — I    weep,    perchance — I    feel— 

I  think— 

I  still  preserve  all  functions  of  a  man — 
Yet  doth  the  free  wind  of  the  fickle  world 
Blow  on  me  with  as  chilly  a  respect 
As  on  a  nameless  grave.     Is  there  so  sad 
A  sunset  on  my  face,  that  all  beholding 
Think  only  of  the  morrow  ? — other  minds, 
Other    hearts,    other    hands?      Almighty 

God, 

If  I  dare  pray  Thee  by  that  name  of  God, 
Strengthen  me  !   blow  upon  me  with  Thy 

breath  ! 

Let  one  last  memorable  flash  of  fire 
Burst  from  the  blackening  brand  ! — 

Yes,  sick — sick — sick  : 
Sick  of  the  world  ;  sick  of  the  fitful  fools 
That  I  have  played  with  ;  sick,  forsooth,  of 

breath, 
Of  thought,  of  hope,  of  Time.     I  staked 

my  Soul 
Against  a  Crown,  and  won.     I  wore  the 

Crown, 
And  'twas  of  burning  fire.      I  staked  my 

Crown 

Against  a  Continent,  and  lost.     I  am  here  ; 
Fallen,  unking'd,  the  shadow  of  a  power, 
Yet    not    heart-broken — no,     not     heart- 
broken— 

But  surely  with  more  equable  a  pulse 
Than  when  I  sat  on  yonder  lonely  Seat 
Fishing  for  wretched  souls,    and  for  my 

sport, 

Although  the  bait  was  dainty  to  the  taste, 
Hooking  the  basest  only.     I  am  nearer 
To  the  world's  heart  than  then  ;  'tis  bitter 

bread, 

Most  bitter,  yea,  most  bitter  ;  yet  I  eat 
More  freely,  and  sleep  safer.     I  could  die 

now  : 
And  yet  I  dare  not  die. 


POLITICAL  MYSTICS. 


wrought 


Maker  of  men  ! 
Thou  Wind  before  whose  strange  breath 

we  are  clouds 
Driving  and  changing ! — Thou  who   dost 

abide 

While  all  the  laurels  on  the  brows  of  Kings 
Wither  as  wreaths  of  snow  ! — Thou  Voice 

that  dwellest 

In  the  high  sleeping  chambers  of  the  great, 
When  council  and  the  feverish  pomp  are 

hush'd, 
And  the  dim  lamp  burns  low,  and  at  its 

side 

The  sleeping  potion  in  a  cup  of  gold  : — 
Hear  me,  O  God,  in  this  my  travail  hour  ! 
From  first  to    last,   Thou    knowest — yea, 

Thou  knowest— 

I  have  been  a  man  of  peace  :  a  silent  man, 
Thought-loving,  most  ambitious  to  appease 
Self-chiding  fears  of  mental  littleness, 
A  planner  of  delights  for  foolish  men — 
In  all,  a  man  of  peace.     I  struck  one  blow, 
And  saw  my  hands  were  bloody  ;  from  that 

hour 

I  knew  myself  too  delicately  wrought 
For  crimson  pageants  ;  yea,  the  sight  of 

pain 

Sicken'd  me  like  a  woman.    Day  and  night 
I  felt  that  stain  on  my  immortal  soul, 
And  gloved  it  from  the  world,  and  diligently 
Wrought  the  red  sword  of  empire   to  a 

scythe 

For  the  swart  hands  of  husbandmen  to  reap 
Abundant    harvest. — Nay,    but    hear    me 

swear, 

I  never  dreamed  such  human  harvests  blest 
As  spring  from  that  red  rain  which  pours 

this  day 

On  the  fair  fields  I  sowed.     Never,  O  God, 
Was  I  a  butcher  or  a  thing  of  blood  ; 
Always  a  man  of  peace  : — in  mine  ambition 
Peace-seeking,  peace-engendering; — till  that 

day 

I  saw  the  half-unloosen' d  hounds  of  War 
Yelp  on  the  chain  and  gnash  their  bloody 

teeth, 

Ready  to  rend  mine  unoffending  Child, 
In  whose  weak  hand  the   mimic  toy  of 

empire 
Trembled    to    fall.       Then    feverishly    I 

wrought 
A  weapon  in   the    dark  to    smite    those 

hounds 


life 

: 


From  mine  imperial  seat  ;  and  as  I  wrough 
One  of  the  fiends  that  came  of  old  to  Cain 
Found  me,  and  since  I  thirsted  gave  to 
A  philtre,  and  in  idiocy  I  drank  : 
When  suddenly  I  heard  as  in  a  dream 
Trumpets  around  me  silver-tongued, 

saw 
The  many-colour'd  banners  gleam  in 

sun 

Above  the  crying  legions,  and  I  rode 
Royal  before  them,  drunk  with  light  and 

power, 

My  boy  beside  me  blooming  like  a  rose 
To  see  the  glorious  show.     Yet  God,  my 

God, 

Even  then  I  swear  the  hideous  lust  of  life 
Was  far  from  me  and  mine  ;  nay,  I 

forth, 

As  to  a  gay  review  at  break  of  day, 
A  student  dazzled  with  the  golden  glare, 
Half  conscious  of  the  cries  of  those  he  ruled. 
Half  brooding  o'er  the  book  that  he  had 

left 
Open  within   his  chamber.      '  Blood 

flow,' 
I    thought,    'a    little    blood — a  few 

drops, — 
A  few  poor  drops  of  blood  :  but  they  s 

prove 
Pearls  of  great  price  to  buy  my  people 

peace ; 
The  hounds  of  War  shall  turn  from  our 

fair  fields, 

And  on  my  son  a  robe  like  this  I  wear 
Shall  fall,  and  make  him  royal  for  all  time  ! 

0  fool,   fool,   fool !    What  was  I   but  a 

child, 

Pleased  beyond  understanding  with  a  toy, 
Till  in  mine  ears  the  scream  of  rnurther'd 

France 
Rang  like  a  knell.     I  had  slain  my  best 

beloved  ! 
The  curse  of  blood  was  on  mine  hands 

again  ! 

My  gentle  boy,  with  wild  affrighted  gaze, 
Turn'd  from  his  sire,  and  moaned  ;    the 

hounds  of  War 
Scream'd  round    me,    glaring  with    their 

pitiless  eyes 
Innumerable  as  the  eyes  of  heaven  ; 

1  felt  the  sob  of  the  world's  woe  ;  I  saw 
The  fiery  rain  fill  all  the  innocent  air  ; 
And,  feeble  as  a  maid  who  hides  her  face 


THE  FOOL   OF  DESTINY. 


In    terror    at    a    sword-flash,   conscience- 
struck, 

Sick,  stupefied,  appalled,  and  all  alone, 
I  totter'd,   grasped    the  empty  air, — and 
fell! 

CHORUS  OF  SPIRITS. 
Vast  Sea  of  Life  that,  'neath  the  arc 

Of  yonder  glistening  sky, 
Rollest  thy  waters  deep  and  dark, 

While  windy  years  blow  by  : 
On  thy  pale  shore  this  night  we  stand, 
And  hear  thy  wash  upon  the  sand. 

Calm  is  thy  sheet  and  wanly  bright, 

Low  is  thy  voice  and  deep  ; 
There  is  no  child  on  earth  this  night 

Wrapt  in  a  gentler  sleep  ; 
Crouch'd  like  a  hound  thou  liest  now, 
With  eye  upcast  and  dreadful  brow. 

O  Sea,  thy  breast  is  deep  and  blest 

After  a  dreadful  day  ; 
And  yet  thou  listenest  in  thy  rest 

For  some  sign  far  away  ; 
Watching  with  fascinated  eyes 
The  uplifted  Finger  in  the  skies  ! 

A  hundred  years  thy  still  tides  go 
And  touch  the  self-same  mark — 

Thus  far,  no  farther,  may  they  flow 
And  fall  in  light  and  dark  ; 

The  mystic  water-line  is  drawn 

By  moonlit  night  and  glimmering  dawn. 

Sure  as  a  heart-beat  year  by  year, 
Though  winds  and  thunders  call, 

Be  it  storm  or  calm,  the  tides  appear, 
Touch  the  long  line  and  iall, 

Liquid  and  luminously  dim  ;  t 

And  men  build  dwellings  on  their  brim. 

O  well  may  this  man  wring  his  hands, 

And  utter  a  wild  prayer. 
He  built  above  thy  lonely  sands 

A  Feait-house  passing  fair  ; 
It  rose  above  thy  sands,  O  Sea, 

In  a  fak  nook  of  greenery. 

For  he  had  watched  thee  many  days, 

And  mark'd  thy  weedy  line, 
And  far  above  the  same  did  raise 

His  Temple  undivine. 
Throng' d  with  fair  shapes  of  sin  and  guilt 
It  rose  most  magically  built. 


Not  to  the  one  eternal  Light, 
Lamp  of  both  quick  and  dead, 

Did  he  uprear  it  in  thy  sight, 
But  with  a  smile  he  said  : 

'  To  the  unvarying  laws  of  Fate, 

This  Temple  fair  I  dedicate. 

'  To  that  sure  law  by  which  the  Sea 

Is  driven  to  come  and  go 
Within  one  mystic  boundary, 

And  can  no  further  flow ; 
So  that  who  knoweth  destiny 
May  safely  build,  nor  fear  the  Sea  1 ' 

O  fool !    O  miserable  clod  ! 

O  creature  made  to  die  ! 
Who  thought  to  mark  the  might  of  God 

And  mete  it  with  his  eye  ; 
Who  measured  God's  mysterious  ways 
By  laws  of  common  nights  and  days. 

O  worm,  that  sought  to  pass  God  by, 
Nor  feared  that  God's  revenge  : 

The  law  within  the  law,  whereby 
All  things  work  on  to  change  ; 

Who  guessed  not  how  the  still  law's  course 

Accumulates  superfluous  force  ; — 

How  for  long  intervals  and  vast 
Strange  secrets  hide  from  day, 

Till  Nature's  womb  upheaves  to  cast 
The  gather' d  load  away  ; 

How  deep  the  very  laws  of  life 

Deposit  elements  of  strife. 

O  many  a  year  in  sun  and  shower 

The  quiet  waters  creep  ! — 
But  suddenly  on  some  dark  hour 

Strange  trouble  shakes  the  deep  : 
Silent  and  monstrous  thro'  the  gloom 
Rises  the  Tidal  Wave  for  doom. 

Then  woe  for  all  who,  like  this  Man, 

Have  built  so  near  the  Sea, 
For  what  avails  the  human  plan 

When  the  new  force  flows  free  ? 
Over  their  bonds  the  waters  stream, 
And  Empires  crash  and  despots  scream. 

O,  is  it  earthquake  far  below 

Where  the  still  forces  sleep  ? 
Doth  the  volcano  shriek  and  glow, 

Unseen  beneath  the  deep  ? 
We  know  not ;  suddenly  as  death 
Comes  the  great  Wave  with  fatal  breath. 


312 


POLITICAL   MYSTICS. 


God  works  His  ends  for  ever  thus, 

And  lets  the  great  plan  roll 
He  wrought  all  things  miraculous, 

The  Sea,  the  Earth,  the  Soul ; 
And  nature  from  dark  springs  doth  draw 
Her  fatal  miracles  of  law. 

O  well  may  this  Man  wring  his  hands. 

And  utter  a  wild  prayer  ; 
He  built  above  the  shifting  sands 

A  Feast-house  passing  fair. 
Long  years  it  stood,  a  thing  of  shame  : 
At  last  the  mighty  moment  came. 

Crashing  like  grass  into  its  grave, 

Fell  down  the  fair  abode  ; 
The  despot  struggled  in  the  wave, 

And  swimming  screamed  to  God. 
And  lo,  the  waters  with  deep  roar 
Cast  the  black  weed  upon  the  shore. 

Then  with  no  warning,  as  they  rose, 
Shrunk  back  to  their  old  bounds  : 

Tho'  still  with  deep  volcanic  throes 
And  sad  mysterious  sounds 

They  quake.     The  Man  upon  their  brim 

Sees  wreck  of  Empire  washed  to  him. 

Vast  Sea  of  life,  that  "neath  the  arc 

Of  yonder  glistening  sky, 
Spreadest  thy  waters  strange  and  dark 

While  windy  years  blow  by, 
Creep  closer,  kiss  his  feet,  O  Sea, 
Poor  baffled  worm  of  Destiny  ! 

Fain  would  he  read  with  those  dull  eyes 

What  never  man  hath  known, 
The  secret  that  within  thee  lies 

Seen  by  God's  sight  alone  ; 
Thou  watchest  Heaven  all  hours  ;  but  he, 
Praying  to  Heaven,  watches  thee. 

So  will  he  watch  with  weary  breath, 

Musing  beside  the  deep, 
Till  on  thy  shore  he  sinks  in  death, 

And  thy  still  tides  upcreep, 
Raise  him  with  cold  forgiving  kiss, 
And  wash  his  dust  to  the  Abyss. 

NAPOLEON.    A  BISHOP. 

NAPOLEON. 

Speak  out  thy  tidings  quickly, 

How  fares  it  with  the  Empress  and  my  son  ? 


BISHOP. 
Well,  Sire.     They  bid  thee  look  thy  fate  in 

the  face, 
And  be  of  cheer. 


NAPOLEON. 


Where  didst  thou  part  with  them 


I 

I 


BISHOP. 

In  England,  Sire,  where  they  have  found  a 
home 

Among  the  frozen-blooded  islanders, 

Who    yesterday   called    blessings    on  tt 
brow, 

And  now  rejoice  in  thy  calamity. 

Thus  much  thy  mighty  lady  bade  me  say, 

If  I  should  find  thee  private  in  thy  woe  : — 

With  thy  great  name  the  streets  are  gar- 
rulous : 

Mart,   theatre,   and    church,    palace    and 
prison, 

Down  to  the  very  commons  by  the  road 

Where  Egypt's  bastard  children  pitch  their 
tents, 

Murmur  '  Napoleon '  ;  but,  alas  !  the  sound 

Is  an  echo  that  with  no  refrain, 

No  loving  echo  in  a  living  voice, 

Dies  a  cold  death  among  the  mountain 
snow. 

NAPOLEON. 

Old  man,   I   never  looked  for  friendship 

there, 

I  never  loved  that  England  in  my  heart ; 
Tho'  'twas  by  such  a  sampler  I  believed 
To  weave  our  France's  fortunes  thriftily 
With  the  gold  tissues  of  prosperity. 

BISHOP. 
Ah,  Sire,  if  I  dare  speak — 

NAPOLEON. 

Speak  on. 
BISHOP. 

Too  much 

Thine  eyes  to  that  cold  isle  of  heretics 
Turn'd  from  thy  throne  for  use  and  pre- 
cedent ; 

Too  little  did  they  look,  and  that  too  late, 
On  that  strong  rock  whereon  the  Lord  thy 

God 
Hath  built  His  Holy  Church. 


THE  FOOL   OF  DESTINY. 


313 


NAPOLEON. 

Something  of  this 
I  have  heard  in  happier  seasons. 

BISHOP. 

Hear  it  now 
In  the  dark  day  of  thine  adversity. 

0  Sire,  by  him  who  holds  the  blessed  Keys, 
Christ's  Vicar  on  the  earth  for  blinded  men, 

1  do  conjure  thee,  hearken  —with  my  mouth, 
Though  I  am  weak  and  low,    the  Holy 

Church 
Cries  to  her  erring  son  ! 

NAPOLEON. 

Well,  well,  he  hears. 

BISHOP. 

Thou  smilest,  Sire.     With  such  a  smile,  so 

grim, 
So  bitter,  didst  thou  mock  our  blessed 

cause 
In  thy  prosperity. 

NAPOLEON. 

False,  Bishop,  false  ! 
I  made  a  bloody  circle  with  my  sword 
Round    the    old    Father's    head,   and    so 

secured  him 

Safe  on  his  tottering  Seat  against  the  world, 
When  all  the  world  cried  that  his  time  was 

come. 
What  then  ?  He  totter' d  on.  I  could  not 

prop 
His  Seat  up  with  my  sword,  that  Seat  being 

built, 
Not  on  a  rock,  but  sand. 

BISHOP. 

The  world  is  sick 

And  old  indeed,  when  lips  like  thine  blas- 
pheme. 

Whisper  such  words  out  on  the  common 
air, 

And,  as  a  child, 

Blow  thy  last  hopes  away. 

NAPOLEON. 

Hopes,  hopes  !    What  hopes  ? 
What  knowest  thou  of  hopes  ? 

BISHOP. 

Thy  throne  was  rear'd 
(Nay  hear  me,  Sire,  in  patience  to  the  end) 


Not  on  the  vulgar  unsubstantial  air 
Which  men  call  Freedom,  not  on  half  con- 
sent 
Of   unbelievers  —  tho',    alas  !     thou    hast 

stoop'd 

To  smile  on  unbelievers — not  on  lives 
That  saw  in  thee  one  of  the  good  and 

wise, 

Not  wholly  on  the  watchword  of  thy  name  ; 
But  first  on  this — the  swords  thy  gold  could 

buy, 

And  most  and  last,  upon  the  help  of  those 
Who  to  remotest  corners  of  our  land 
Watch  o'er  the  souls  of  men,  sit  at  their 

hearths, 

Lend  their  solemnity  to  birth  and  death, 
Guide  as  they  list  the  motions  of  the  mind, 
And  as  they  list  with  darkness  or  with  light 
Appease  the  spiritual  hunger.     Where 
Had  France  been,  and  thou,  boasted  Sun 

of  France, 
For  nineteen  harvests,  save  for  those  who 

crept 

Thine  agents  into  every  cottage-door, 
Slowly  diffusing  thro'  each  vein  of  France 
The  sleepy  wine  of  empire  ?    Like  to  slaves 
These  served  thee,   used  thy  glory  for  a 

charm, 

Hung  up  thine  image  in  a  peasant's  room, 
Beside  our  blessed  Saints,  and  cunningly, 
As  shepherds  drive  their  sheep  unto  the  fold, 
Gather 'd  thy  crying  people  where  thy  hand 
Might  choose  them  out  for  very  butchery. 
Nay,  more  ;  as  fearful  men  may  stamp  out 

fire, 

They  in  the  spirits  of  thy  people  killed 
The  sparks  of  peril  left  from  those  dark 

days, 
When  France  being  drunk  with  blood  and 

mad  with  pain 
Sprang  on  the  burning  pyre,  and  with  her 

raiment 

Burning  and  streaming  crimson  in  the  wind, 
Curst  and  denied  her  God.     They  made 

men  see, 

Yea,  in  the  very  name  of  Liberty, 
A  net  of  Satan's  set  to  snare  the  soul 
From  Christ  and  Christ's  salvation  :  in  their 

palms 
They  welded    the    soft    clay    of   popular 

thought 

To  this  wish'd  semblance  yet  more  cun- 
ningly ; 


POLITICAL  MYSTICS. 


Till  not  a  peasant  heir  of  his  own  fields, 
And  not  a  citizen  that  own'd  a  house, 
And  not  a  man  or  woman  who  had  saved, 
But  when  some  wild  voice   shriek'd   out 

'  Liberty !  ' 

Trembled  as  if  the  robber's  foot  were  set 
Already  on  his  threshold,  and  in  fear 
Clutch'd  at  his  little  store.     These  things 

did  they, 
Christ's  servants  serving  thee  ;  they  were 

as  veins 
Bearing  the  blood  through  France  from 

thee  its  heart 

Throbbing  full  glorious  in  the  capital. 
And  thou,  O  Sire,  in  thine  own  secret  mind 
Knowest  what  meed  thou  hast  accorded 

them, 

Who,  thy  sworn  liegemen  in  thy  triumph- 
hour, 
Are  still  thy  props  in  thy  calamity. 

NAPOLEON. 

Well ;  have  you  done  ? 


BISHOP. 


Not  yet. 


NAPOLEON. 

What  more  ? 

BISHOP. 

Look  round 

This  day  on  Europe,  look  upon  the  World, 
Which  like  a  dark  tree  o'er  the  river  of  Time 
Hangeth  with  fruit  of  races,  goodly  some, 
Some  rotten  to  the  core.     Out  of  the  heart 
Of  what  had  seem'd  the  sunset  of  the  west, 
Rises  the  Teuton,  silent,  subtle,  and  sure, 
Gathering  his  venom  slowly  like  a  snake 
Wrapping  the  sleepy  lands  in  fold  by  fold  ; 
Then  springing  up  to  stab  his  prey  with  fangs 
Numerous  as  spears  of  wheat  in  harvest  time. 
O,  he  is  wise,  the  Teuton,  he  is  deep 
As  Satan's  self  in  perilous  human  lore, 
Such  as  the  purblind  deem  philosophy  ! 
But,  be  he  cunning  as  the  Tempter  was, 
Christ  yet  shall  bruise  his  head  ;  for  in  him- 
self 

He  bears,  as  serpents  use, 
A  brood  of  lesser  snakes,  cunning  things  too 
But  lesser,  and  of  these  many  prepare 
Such  peril  as  in  his  most  glorious  hour 
May  strike  him  feebler  than  the  wretched 
worms 


That  crawl  this  day  on  the  dead  lambs  of 

France. 
Meantime,  he  to  his  purpose  moves  most 

slow, 

And  overcomes.    Note  how,  upon  her  rock 
The   sea-beast  Albion,    swollen  with  idle 

years 

Of  basking  in  the  prosperous  sunshine,  rolls 
Her  fearful  eyes,  and  murmurs.     See  how 

wildly 

The  merciless  Russian  paceth  like  a  bear 
His  lonely  steppes  of  snow,  and  with  deep 

moan 
Calling  his  hideous  young,  casts  famished 

eyes 

On  that  worn  Paralytic  in  the  East, 
Whom  thou  of  old  didst  save.     Call  thou 

to  these 

For  succour  ;  shall  they  stir  ?  Will  the  sea- 
beast 
Budge  from  her  rock  ?    Will  the  bear  leave 

his  wilds  ? 

Then  mark  how  feebly  in  the  wintry  cold 
Old  Austria  ruffles  up  her  plumage,  Sire, 
Covering  the  half-heal'd  wound  upon  her 

neck  ; 
See  how  on  Spain  her  home-bred  vermin 

feed, 

As  did  the  worms  on  Herod  ;  Italy 
Is  as  a  dove-cote  by  a  battle-field, 
Abandoned  to  the  kites  of  infamy  , 
Belgium,  Denmark,  and  Helvetia, 
Like  plovers  watching  while  the  wind-hover 
Strikes  down  one  of  their  miserable  kind, 
Wheeling  upon  the  wind  cry  to  each  other  ; 
And  far  away  the  Eagle  of  the  West, 
Poised  in  the  lull  of  her  own  hurricane, 
Sits  watching  thee  with  eyes  as  blank  of  love 
As  those  grey  seas  that  break  beneath  her 

feet. 

NAPOLEON. 

This  is  cold  comfort,  yet  I  am  patient. 
Well? 

To  the  issue  !  Dost  thou  keep  behind  the 
salve 

Whose  touch  shall  heal  my  wounds?  or  dost 
thou  only, 

As  any  raven  on  occasion  can, 

Croak  out  the  stale  truth,  that  the  day  is 
lost, 

And  that  the  world's  slaves  knee  the  con- 
queror ? 


THE  FOOL    OF  DESTINY. 


315 


BISHOP. 

Look  not  on  these,  thy  crowned  peers,  for 

aid, 
But  inward.     Read  thy  heart. 


It  is  a  book 


NAPOLEON. 

I  have  studied  somewhat  deeply. 

BISHOP. 

In  thine  heart, 
Tho'  the  cold  lips  might  sneer,   the  dark 

brow  frown, 
Wert  thou  not  ever  one  believing  God  ? 

NAPOLEON. 

I  have  believed,  and  do  believe,  in  God. 

BISHOP. 

For  that,  give  thanks  to  God.     He  shall 
uplift  thee. 

NAPOLEON. 

How? 

BISHOP. 

By  the  secret  bands  of  His  great  Church. 
Even  now  in  darkness  and  on  tilths  remote 
They  labour  in  thy  service  ;  one  by  one 
They  gather  up  the  fallen  reins  of  power 
And  keep  them  for  thy  grasp  ;  so  be  thou 

sure, 

When  thou  hast  woven  round  about  thy  soul 
The  robe  of  holiness,  and  from  the  hands 
Of  Holy  Church  demandestthy  lost  throne, 
It  shall  be  hers  to  give  thee. 

NAPOLEON. 

In  good  truth, 
I  scarce  conceive  thee.     What,  degenerate 

Rome, 
With  scarce  the  power  in  this  strong  wind 

of  war 

To  hold  her  ragged  gauds  about  her  limbs  ; 
Rome,  reft  of  the  deep  thunder  in  her  voice, 
The  dark  curse  in  her  eye;  Rome,  old, 

dumb,  blind, — 
Shall  Rome  give   Kingdoms  ? — Why,  she 

hath  already 
Transferred  her  own  to  Heaven. 

BISHOP. 

Canst  thou  follow 

The  coming  and  the  going  of  the  wind, 
Fathom  the  green  abysses  of  the  sea  ? 


For  such  as  these,  is  Rome  : — the  voice  of 

God 

Sounding  in  darkness  and  a  silent  place  ; 
The  morning  dew   scarce  seen  upon  the 

flowers, 

Yet  drawn  to  heaven  and  grown  the  thunder- 
bolt 
That  shakes  the  earth  at   noon.     When 

man's  wild  soul 

Clutches  no  more  at  the  white  feet  of  Christ ; 
When  death  is  not,  nor  spiritual  disease  ; 
When  atheists  can  on  the  black  mountain 

tops 

Walk  solitary  in  the  light  of  stars, 
And  cry,  '  God  is  not '  ;  when  no  mothers 

kneel 
Moaning  on  graves  of  children  ;  when  no 

flashes 

Trouble  the  melancholy  dark  of  dream  ; 
When  prayer  is  hush'd,when  the  Wise  Book 

is  shut — 
Then  Rome  shall  fall  indeed  :  meantime  she 

is  based 

Invulnerable  on  the  soul  of  man, 
Its  darkest  needs  and  fears  ;  she  doth  dis- 
pense 
What  soon  or  late  is  better  prized  than 

gold,— 

Comfort  and  intercession  ;  for  all  sin 
She  hath  the  swiftest  shrift,  wherefore  her 

clients 
Are  those  that  have  sinned  deeply,  and  of 

such 
Is  half  the  dreadful  world  ;   all  these  she 

holds 
By  that  cold  eyeball  which  hath  read  their 

souls, 

So  that  they  look  upon  her  secretly 
And  tremble, — while  in  her  dark  book  of 

Fate 
E'en  now  she  dooms  the  Teuton. 

Enter  a  MESSENGER. 

NAPOLEON. 

Well,  what  news  ? 

MESSENGER. 

'Tis  brief  and  sad.     The  mighty  Prussian 

chiefs, 

Gathering  their  fiery  van  in  silence,  close 
Toward  the  imperial  City — in  whose  walls 
Treason  and  Rage  and  Fear  contend  toge- 
ther 


POLITICAL  MYSTICS. 


Like  hunger-stricken  wolves  ;  and  at  their 

cry, 

Echoed  from  Paris  to  the  Vosges,  France, 
Calling  her  famish'd  children  round  her 

knees, 

Looks  at  the  trembling  nations.   All  is  still, 
Like  to  that  silence  which  precedes  the 

storm. 
And  shakes  the    forest  leaves  without  a 

breath  ; 

But  surely  as  the  vaporous  storm  is  woven, 
The  German  closes  round  the    heart    of 

France 
His  hurricane  of  lives. 

NAPOLEON. 

( To  Bishop}    The  Teuton  thrives 
Under  the  doom  we  spake  of. 
( To  Messenger]    Well,  speak  on  ! 

MESSENGER. 

Meantime,  like  kine  that  see  the  gathering 

clouds 
And  shelter  'neath  the  shade  of  rocks  and 

trees, 

Thy  timorous  people  fly  before  the  sound 
Of  the  approaching  footsteps,  seeking  woods 
For  shelter,  snaring  conies  for  their  food, 
And  sleeping  like  the  beasts  ;  some  fare  in 

caves, 

Fearing  the  wholesome  air,  hushing  the  cries 
Of  infants  lest  the  murderous  foe  should 

hear; 
Some  scatter  west  and  south,  their  frighted 

eyes 

Cast  backward,  with  their  wretched  house- 
hold goods ; 
And  where  these  dwelt,  most  blest  beneath 

thy  rule, 
The  German  legions  thrive,  let  loose  like 

swine 

Amid  the  fields  of  harvest,  in  their  track 
Leaving  the  smoking  ruin,  and  the  church 
Most  desecrated  to  a  sleeping-sty  ; — 
So  that  the  plenteous  lands  that  rolled  in 

gold 

Round  thy  voluptuous  City,  lie  full  bare 
To  shame,  to  rapine,  to  calamity. 

NAPOLEON. 

0  for  one  hour  of  empire,  that  with  life 

1  might  consume  this  sorrow !     'Tis  a  spell 
By  which  we  are  subdued  1 


MESSENGER. 

Strasbourg  still  stands, 
Stubborn  as  granite,  but  the  citadel 
Is  falling.     Within,    Famine  and  Horror 

nest, 

And  rear  their  young  on  ruin.  [Exit. 

Enter  a  MESSENGER. 

NAPOLEON. 

How,  peal  on  peal ! 

Like  the  agonising  clash  of  bells  when  flame 
Hath  seized  on  some  fair  city.    News,  more 

news? 
Dost  thou  too  catch  the  common  trick  o' 

the  time, 
And  ring  a  melancholy  peal  ? 


MESSENGER. 


Strasbourg  still  stands. 


My  liege, 


NAPOLEON. 

And  then  ? 

MESSENGER. 

Pent  up  in  Metz, 

Encircled  by  a  river  of  strong  lives, 
Bazaine  is  faithful  to  the  cause  and  thee, 
And  from  his  prison  doth  proclaim  himself, 
And  all  the  host  of  Frenchmen  at  his  back, 
Thy  liegemen  to  the  death. 

NAPOLEON. 

Why,  that  last  peal 
Sounds  somewhat  blither.     Well  ? 

MESSENGER. 

From  his  lone  isle 

The  old  Italian  Red-shirt  in  his  age 
Hath  crawl'd,   tho'  sickly  and  infirm,   to 

France, 

And  slowly  there  his  leonine  features  breed 
Hope  in  the  timid  people,  who 

NAPOLEON. 

Enough !     {Exit  Messenger. 
That  tune  is  flat  and  tame. 

Enter  a  MESSENGER. 

What  man  art  thou 
Speak ! 

MESSENGER. 

Better  I  had  died  at  Weissenburg, 
Where  on  the  bloody  field  I  lay  for  dead, 


THE  FOOL    OF  DESTINY. 


317 


Than  live  to  bring  this  woe.     Ungenerous 

France, 

Forgetful  of  thy  gracious  years  of  reign, 
Pitiless  as  a  sated  harlot  is 
When  ruin  overtaketh  him  whose  hand 
Hath  loaded  her  with  gems,  shameless  and 

mad, 

France,  like  Delilah,  now  betrays  her  lord. 
The  streets  are  drunken — from  thy  palace- 
gate 
They  pluck  the  imperial  eagles,  trampling 

them 

Into  the  bloody  mire ;  thy  flags  and  pennons, 
Torn  from  their  vantage  in  the  wind,  are 

wrapt 
In  mockery  round    the    beggar's    ragged 

limbs ; 

And  thine  imperial  images  in  stone, 
Dash'd  from  their  lofty  places,  strew  the 

ground 

In  shameful  ruin.     All  the  ragged  shout, 
While  Trochu  from  the  presidential  seat 
Proclaims  the  empire  dead,  and  calleth  up 
A  new  Republic,  in  whose  chairs  of  office 
Thine  enemies,  scribblers  and  demagogues, 
Simon,  Gambetta,  Favre,  and  linked  with 

these 

The  miserable  Rochefort,  trembling  grasp 
The  reins  of  power,  unconscious  of  the  scorn, 
That  doth  already  doom  them.  To  their 

feet 
Come  humming  back,  vain-drunken,  all  the 

wasps 
Whom  in  thine  hour  of  glory  thou  didst 

brush 

With  careless  arm-sweep  from  thy  festal  cup; 
Shoulder'd  by  mobs  the  pigmy  Blanc  de- 
claims, 
The  hare-brain'd  Hugo  shrieks  a  maniac 

song 

In  concert,  and  the  scribblers,  brandishing 
Their  pens  like  valiant  lilliputians 
Against  the  Teuton  giant,  frantically 
Scream  chorus.    Coming  with  mock-humble 

eyes 

To  the  Republic,  this  sham  shape  of  straw, 
This  stuff 'd  thing  of  a  harlot's  carnival, 
The  dilettante  sons  of  Orleans,  kneeling, 
Proffer  forsooth  their  swords,  which  being 

disdain'd 
They  sheathe   chapfallen  and  with  bows 

withdraw 
Back  to  their  pictures  and  perfumery. 


NAPOLEON. 
Why,  thine  is  news  indeed !    Nor  do   I 

weep 
For  mine  own  wrong,  but  for  the  woes  of 

France, 
Whose  knell  thou  soundest.   With  a  tongue 

of  fire 

Our  enemy  shall  like  the  ant-eater 
Devour  these  insect  rulers  suddenly. 
(Aside)  Now,  may  the  foul  fiend  blacken 

all  the  air 
Above  these  Frenchmen,  with  revolt  and 

fear 

Darken  alike  the  wits  of  friends  and  foes, 
With  swift  confusion  and  with  anarchy 
Disturb  their  fretful  counsels,  till  at  last, 
Many-tongued,  wild-hair'd,  mad,  and  hor- 
rible 

With  fiery  eyes  and  naked  crimson  limbs, 
Upriseth  the  old  Spectre  of  the  Red, 
And  as  of  yore  lifts  up  the  shameful  knife 
To  stab  unhappy   France ;   then,   in  her 

need, 
Fearful  and  terror-stricken,   France  shall 

call 
On  him  who  gave  her  nineteen  plenteous 

years — 
And  he  may  rise  again.  [Exeunt. 

CHORUS  OF  SPIRITS. 

Who  in  the  name  of  France  curses  French 

souls  this  day  ? 
How  !   shall  the  tempter  curse  ?    Silence ; 

and  turn  away  ; 
Turn  we  our  faces  hence  white  with  a  wild 

desire, 
Westward  we  lift  our  gaze  till  the  straining 

balls  flash  fire, 
Westward  we  look  to  France,  sadly  we  watch 

and  mark  : — 
Far  thro'  the  pitch-black  air,  like  breaking 

foam  in  the  dark, 
Cometh    and   goeth    a   light    across    the 

stricken  land, 
And  we  hear  a  distant  voice  like  the  wash 

of  waves  on  the  sand. 

VOICES. 

Set  the  cannon  on  the  heights,  and  under 
Let  the  black  moat  gape,  the  black  graves 
grow! 

Now  let  thunder 
Answer  back  the  thunder  of  the  foe  I 


POLITICAL    MYSTICS. 


France  has  torn  her  cerements  asunder, 
France  doth  live,  to  strike  the  oppressor 
low. 

CHORUS. 

O  hark  !  O  hark  !  a  voice  arises  wild  and 

strong, 
Loud  as  a  bell  that  rings  alarm  it  lifts  the 

song. 
See  !   see  !   the  dark  is  lit,  fire  upon  fire 

upsprings, 
Loudly  from  town  to  town  the  fiery  tiding 

rings. 
Now  the  red  smithies  blaze  and  the  blue 

steel  is  sped, 
They  twist  bright  steel  for  guns,  they  cast 

the  fatal  lead ; 
Cannon  is  drawn  to  the  gate, — and  lo,  the 

bravest  stand 
Bare  to  the  shoulder  there,  smokc-begrim'd, 

fuse  in  hand ; 
Now  to  the  winds  of  heaven  the  Flag  of 

Stars  they  raise, 
While  those  sing  martial  songs  who  are  too 

frail  for  frays. 
France  is  uprisen  again  !  France  the  sworn 

slayer  of  Kings  ! 
With  bleeding  breast  and  bitter  heart  at 

the  Teuton's  throat  she  springs. 

VOICES. 
Now  like  thunder 

Be  our  voice  together  while  we  cry  ! 
Kings  shall  never  hold  our  spirits  under, 
Kings  shall  cast  their  crowns  aside  and 

fly: 

Latin,  Sclav,  or  Teuton,  they  shall  wonder; 
The  soul  of  man  hath  doom'd  them — let 

them  die. 
We  have  slain  Kings  of  old,  they  were  our 

own  to  slay, 
But  now  we    doom  all   Kings    until  the 

Judgment  day, 
Raise  ye  the  Flag  of  Stars !    Tremble,  O 

Kings,  and  behold  ! 
Raise  ye  the  Flag  of  man,  while  the  knell 

of  anarchs  is  tolled. 

This  is  a  festal  day  for  all  the  seed  of  Eve  ; 
France  shall  redeem  the  world,  and  heal  all 

hearts  that  grieve  ; 
France  with  her  sword  this  day  shall  free 

all  human  things, 
With  blood  drain'd  from  her  heart  our 

France  shall  write  the  doom  of  Kings. 


CHORUS. 

Silence  and  hearken   yet !     O  but  it  is  a 

cry 
Heard  under  heaven  of  old,  tho'  the  terrible 

day  blew  by. 
The  red  fire  flames  to  heaven,  and  in  the 

crimson  glow 
Black  shapes  with  prayers  and  cries,  arc 

gliding  to  and  fro. 

VOICES. 

Fill  each  loophole  with  a  man  !  and  finding 

Each  a  foe,  aim  slowly  at  the  brain, 
While  the  blinding 

Lightnings  flash,    and  the    great    guns 

refrain. 
To  the  roofs  !  and  while  beneath  the  foe 

are  winding, 
Dash  ye  stones  and  missiles  down  like 

rain. 
Watch  for  the  gray-beard  King  :  to  drink 

his  blood  were  great. 
Watch  for  the  Cub   thereto— aim  at  his 

brain  full  straight. 
Watch  most  for  that  foul  Knave  who  crawls 

behind  the  crown, 
Who  smiles  befooling  all  with  crafty  eyes 

cast  down  ; 
Sweeter  than  wine    indeed    his  wretched 

blood  would  flow, 
Curst  juggler  with  our  souls,  he  who  hath 

wrought  this  woe. 
France  hath  uprisen  again  !     Let  the  fierce 

shaft  be  sped 
Till  all  the  foul  satanic  things  that  flatter 

Kings  be  dead  ! 

CHORUS. 

Echo  the  dreadful  prayer,   let  the  fierce 

shaft  be  sped, 
Till  all  the  foul  satanic  things  that  flatter 

Kings  be  dead  ! 


Send  the  light  balloon  aloft  with  singing, 
Let  our  hopes  rise  with  it  to  the  sky, 

Let  our  voices  like  one  fount  upspringing 
Tell    the  mighty  realm    that    hope    is 
nigh  ! 

See,  in  answer,  from  the  distance  winging 
Back  unto  our  feet  the  swift  doves  fly  ! 


THE  FOOL    OF  DESTINY. 


319 


CHORUS. 

We  see  the  City  now,  dark  square  and 

street  and  mart, 
The  muffled  drum  doth  sound  reVeille  in  its 

heart, 
The  chain'd  balloon  doth  swing,  while  men 

stand  murmuring  by, 
Then  with  elastic  bound  upleaps  into  the 

sky. 
We  see  the  brightening  dawn,  the  dimly 

dappled  land, 
The  shapes  with  arms  outstretch'd  that  on 

the  housetops  stand, 
The  eyes  that  turn  to  meet  with  one  quick 

flash  of  fear 
The  birds  that  sad  and  slow  wing  nearer 

and  more  near. 
O  courage  !  all  is  well — yea,  let  your  hearts 

be  higher, 
North,    south,    east,   west,    the    souls    of 

Frenchmen  are  as  fire, 
The  reaper  leaves  the  wheat,  the  workman 

leaves  his  loom, 
Tho'  the  black  priest  may  frown,  who  heeds 

his  look  of  gloom  ? 
Flash  the  wild  tidings  forth  !  ring  them  from 

town  to  town, 
Till  like  a  storm  of  scythes  ye  rise,  and  the 

foe  like  wheat  go  down. 

VOICES. 
See  !    how   northward    the    wild    heavens 

lighten, 

Red  as  blood  the  fierce  aurora  waves, 
Let  it  bathe  us  strong  in  blood  and  brighten 

Sweet  with  resurrection  on  our  graves, 
Lighten,  lighten, 

Scroll  of  God  ! — unfold  above  and  brighten, 
Light  the  doom  of  monarchs  and  their 

slaves. 
This  is  a  day  indeed — be  sure  that  God  can 

see. 
Raise    the    fierce     cry    again,     '  Liberty  ! 

Liberty  ! ' 
Courage  !     No  man   dies  twice,   and  he 

shall  live  in  death, 
Who  for  the  Flag  of  Stars  strikes  with  his 

latest  breath. 
Nay,  not  a  foe  shall  live  to  tell  if  France  be 

slain  : 
If  the  wild  cause  be  lost,  only  the  grave 

shall  gain. 


Teuton  and  Frank  in  fierce  embrace  shall 

strew  the  fatal  sod, 
And  they  shall  live  indeed  who  died  to 

save  their  souls  for  God. 


CHORUS. 
O  Spirits,  turn  and  look  no  more  and  hark 

not  to  their  cry  ; 
A  Hand  is  flashed  before  our  eyes,  a  Shape 

goes  sadly  by. 
And  as  it  goes,  it  looks  on  us  with  eyes  that 

swim  in  tears, 
And  bitter  as  the  death-cry  sounds  the  echo 

in  our  ears. 
O  look  no  more  and  seek  no  more  to  read 

the  days  unborn, 
'Tis  storm  this  night  on  the  world's  sea, 

and  'twill  be  storm  at  morn. 
The  Lord  hath  sent  His  breath  abroad,  and 

all  the  waves  are  stirr'd  : 
Amid  the  tempest  Liberty  flies  like  a  white 

sea-bird, 
And,  while  the  heavens  are  torn  apart  and 

the  fierce  waters  gleam, 
Doth  up  and  down  the  furrow' d  waves  dart 

.with  a  sea-bird's  scream. 
O  bow  the  head,  and  close  the  eyes,  and 

pray  a  quiet  prayer, 
But  let  the  bitter  curse  of  Man  go  by  upon 

the  air. 


NAPOLEON.    AN  OFFICER. 

NAPOLEON. 
Is  there  no  hope  for  France  ? 

OFFICER. 

None.     Yet  I  know  not ! 
A  nation,  thus  miraculously  strengthen'd, 
And  acting  in  the  fiercest  wrath  of  love, 
Hath  risen  ere  this  above  calamity, 
Yea  out  of  anguish  conjured  victory. 
If  strength  and  numbers,    if  the  mighty 

hands 

Of  the  Briareus,  shall  decide  the  day, 
Then  surely  as  the  sun  sets  France  must 

fall; 

If  love  or  prayer  can  make  a  miracle 
And  bring  an  angel  down  to  strike  for  her, 
Then  France  may  rise  again. 


320 


POLITICAL   MYSTICS. 


- 


NAPOLEON. 

Have  we  not  proved 
Her    children   cowards  ?     Yea,   by  God  ! 

Like  dogs 
That  rend  the  air  with  wrath  upon  the 

chain, 

And  being  loosen'd  slink  before  the  thief, 
They  fail'd  me — those  who  led  and  those 

who  follow'd  ; 
Scarce  knowing  friend  from  foe,  while  inch 

by  inch 

The  Germans  ate  their  ranks  as  a  slow  fire 
Devoureth  wind-blown  wheat.     I    cannot 

trust 
In  France  or  Frenchmen. 

OFFICER. 

Sire 

NAPOLEON. 

Why  dost  thou  hang 
Thy  head,  old  friend,  and  look  upon  the 

ground  ? 
Nay,  if  all  Frenchmen  had  but  hearts  like 

thine, 
Then  France  were  blest  in  sooth,  and  I,  its 

master, 
Were  safe  against  the  swords  of  all  the 

world. 

OFFICER. 

Sire,  'twas  not  that  I  meant — my  life  is 

yours 
To  give  or  take,  to  blame  or  praise  ;   I 

blush'd 
Not  for  myself,  but  France. 

NAPOLEON. 

Then  hadst  thou  cause 
For  crimson  cheeks  indeed. 

OFFICER. 

Sire,  as  I  live, 
Thou  wrongest  her  !     The  breast  whereon 

we  grew 

Suckled  no  cowards.     For  one  dizzy  hour 
France  totter'd,  and  look'd  back  ;  but  now 

indeed 

She  hath  arisen  to  the  very  height 
Of  her  great  peril. 

NAPOLEON. 

'Tis  too  late.     She  is  lost ; 
She  did  betray  her  master,  and  shall  die. 


Not  France  betrayed  thee,  Sire  ;  but  rather 

those 
Whom    thy  most    noble    nature,    royal! 

based 

Above  suspicion  and  perfidious  fear, 
Welcom'd    unto    thy    council ;    not   poo- 
France, 
Whose  bleeding  wounds  speak  for  her  loud 

as  tongues, 
Bit  at  the  hand  that  raised  her  up  so  high  ; 
Not  France,  but  bastard  Frenchmen,  doubly 

damn'd 

Alike  by  her  who  bare  them,  and  by  thee 
Who  fed  them.     These  betrayed  thee  to 

thy  doom, 

And  falling  clutch'd  at  thine  imperial  crown, 
Dragging  it  with  them  to  the  bloody  dust ; 
But  these  that  held  her  arms  like  bands  of 

lead 
Being  torn  from  off  her,  France,  unchain'd 

and  free, 
Uplifts  her  pale  front  to  the  stars,   and 

stands 

Serene  in  doom  and  danger,  and  sublime 
In  resurrection. 

NAPOLEON. 

How  the  popular  taint 
Corrupts  the  wholesome  matter  of  thy  mind ! 
This  would  be  treason,  friend,  if  we  were 

strong — 
Now  'tis  less    perilous :    the    commonest 

wind 
Can  blow  its  scorn  upon  the  fallen. 


; 


OFFICER. 


Sire, 


Behold  me  on  my  knees,  tears  in  mine  eyes, 
And  sorrow  in  my  heart.  My  life  is  thine, 
My  life,  my  heart,  my  soul  are  pledged  to 

thine ; 

And  triply  now  doth  thy  calamity 
Hold  me  thy  slave  and  servant.     If  I  pray, 
'Tis  that  thou  mayst  arise,  and  thou  shalt 

rise  ; 

And  if  I  praise  our  common  mother,  France, 
Who  for  the  moment  hath  forgot  her  lord, 
'Tis  that  my  soul  rejoices  for  thy  sake, 
That  when  thou  comest  to  thine  own  again 
Thy  realm  shall  be  a  realm  regenerate, 
Baptised  a  fair  thing  worthy  of  thy  love 
In  its  own  blood  of  direful  victory. 


THE  FOOL    OF  DESTINY. 


321 


NAPOLEON. 

Sayest  thou?— Rise  !— Friend,  thou  art  little 

skilled 

In  reading  that  abstruse  astrology 
Whereby  our  cunning  politicians  cast 
The  fate  of  Kings.    France  robed  in  victory 
Is  France  for  ever  lost  to  our  great  house. 
France  fallen,  is  France  that  with  my  secret 

hand 

I  may  uplift  again.     But  tell  thy  tale 
Most  freely  :  let  thy  soul  beat  its  free  wings 
Before  me  as  it  lists.      Come !    as  thou 

sayest, 
France  is  no  coward ; — she  hath  at  last 

arisen ; 
Nay,  more — she  is  sublime.     Proceed. 

OFFICER. 

My  liege, 

God,  ere  He  made  me  thy  most  loving  ser- 
vant, 
Made  and  baptised  me,  Frenchman ;  and 

my  heart, 
A  soldier's  heart,  yearns  out  this  day  in 

pride 
To  her  who  bare  me,  and,  both  great  and 

low, 

My  brethren.     Courage  is  a  virtue,  Sire, 
Even  in  a  wretched  cause.     In  Strasbourg 

still 
Old   Uhrich  with  his  weight  of   seventy 

years 

Starves  unsubdued,  while  the  dull  enemy 
Look  on  in  wonder  at  such  strength  in 

woe  ; 
Bazaine  still  keeps  the  glittering  hosts  at 

bay, 
And  holds  them  with  a  watchful  hand  and 

eye; 

The  captain  of  the  citadel  at  Laon, 
Soon  as  the  foeman  gather'd  on  his  walls, 
Illumed  the  hidden  mine,  and  Frank  and 

Teuton, 
With  that  they  strove  for,  strew'd  the  path 

in  death ; 

From  Paris  to  the  Vosges,  loud  and  wild 
The  tocsin  rings  to  arms,  and  on  the  fields 
The  fat  ripe  ear  empties  itself  unreapt, 
While  every  man  whose  hand  can  grasp  a 

sword 

Flocks  to  the  petty  standard  of  his  town  ; 
The  many  looms  of  the  great  factory 
Stand  silent,  but  the  fiery  moulds  of  clay 


Are  fashioning  cannon,  and  the  blinding 

wheels 

Are  sharpening  steel.     In  every  market- 
place 
Peasant  and  prince  are  drilling  side  by 

side  ; 
Roused  from  their  wine-fed  torpor,  changed 

from  swine 

To  men.  the  very  country  burghers  arm, 
Nay,  what  is  more  to  them  than  blood, 

bleed  gold, 
Bounteously,   freely.      I  have  heard  that 

priests, 

Doffing  the  holy  cassock  secretly, 
Shouting    uplift    the    sword,    and    cryin^ 

Christ 
To  aid  them  strike  for  France.     Only  the 

basest, 

Only  the  scum,  shrink  now  ;  for  even  women, 
Catching  the  noble  fever  of  the  time, 
Buckle  the  war-belts  round  their  lovers' 

waists, 
And  clapping  hands,   with  mingled  cries 

and  sobs, 
Urge  young  and  old  against  the  enemy, 

NAPOLEON. 

Of  so  much  thunder  may  the  lightning 

spring  ! 
I  know  how  France  can  thunder,  and  I 

have  felt 
How  women's  tongues    can    urge.      But 

what  of  Paris  ? 
What  of  the  City  of  Light  ?    How  doth  it 

bear 
The  terror  and  the  agony  ? 

OFFICER. 

Most  bravely, 
As  doth    become    the    glorious    heart  of 

France : 
Strong,  fearless,  throbbing  with  a  martial 

might, 

Dispensing  from  its  core  the  vital  heat 
Which  filleth  all  the  members  of  the  land  ; 
Though  even  now  the  sharp  steel  pricks  the 

skin, 
To  stab  it  in  its  strength. 

NAPOLEON. 

Who  holds  the  reins 
Within  the  gates  ? 

Y 


323 


POLTTICAL   MYSTICS. 


OFFICER. 

Trochu. 

NAPOLEON. 

Still  ?    Why,  how  long 

Have  the  poor  fools  been  constant  ?  Favre 
also  ? 

Gambetta  ?  Rochefort  ?  All  these  gentle- 
men 

Still  flourish?  And  Thiers?  Hath  the 
arch-schemer 

A  seat  among  the  gods,  a  place  of  rank 

With  the  ephemera? 

OFFICER. 

Not  so,  my  liege. 

NAPOLEON. 

Well,  being  seated  on  Olympus'  top, 
What  thunderbolts  are  France's  puny  Joves 
Casting  abroad  ?  Or  do  they  sit  and  quake 
For  awe  of   their  own  voices,   which  in 

France, 

As  in  the  shifting  glaciers  of  the  Alps, 
May  bring  the  avalanche  upon  their  heads? 

OFFICER. 

The  men,   to  do   them  justice,  use  their 

power 

Calmly  and  soldierly,  and  for  a  time 
Forget  the  bitter  humours  of  the  senate 
In   the  great    common    cause.      Paris  is 

strong, 
And  full  of  noble  souls. 

NAPOLEON. 

Paris  must  fall. 

OFFICER. 

Not  soon,  my  liege— for  she  is  belted  round 
And  arm'd  impregnable  on  every  side. 
Hunger  and  thirst  may  slay  her,  not  the 

sword  ; 

And  ere  the  foeman's  foot  is  heard  within, 
Paris  will  spring  upon  her  funeral  pyre 
And  follow  Hope  to  heaven.     Last  week  I 

walk'd 

Keading  men's  faces  in  the  silent  streets, 
And,  as  I  am  a  soldier,  saw  in  none 
Fear  or  capitulation  :  very  harlots 
Cried  in  their  shame  the  name  of  Liberty, 
And,  hustled  from  the  gates,  shriek'd  out  a 

curse 


still 

ce 
Dule- 

1 


Ere  the  moon  rose,    the  City  slept  lil 
death 


Upon  the  coming  Teuton  :  all  was  still 
And  dreadful ;  but  the  citizens  in  silence 
Drilled  in  the  squares  ;  on  the  great  boule- 
vard groups 

Whisper'd  together,  with  their  faces  pale 
At  white  heat ;  in  the  silent  theatre, 
Dim  lit  by  lamps,  were  women,  wives 

mothers, 

Silently  working  for  their  wounded  sons 
And  husbands  ;  in  the  churches  too  they 

sat 

And  wrought,  while  ever  and  anon  a  foot 
Rung  on  the  pavement,  and  with  sad  red 

eyes 

They  turn'd  to  see  some  armed  citizen 
Kneel  at  his  orisons  or  vespers.     Nightly, 

ke 

Yet  as  a  lion  sleeps,  with  half-shut  eyes, 
Hearing  each  murmur  on  the  weary  wind, 
Crouching  and  ready  for  the  spring.    Each 

dawn 

I  saw  the  country  carts  come  rumbling  in, 
And  the  scared  country-folk,  with  large 

wild  eyes 
And  open  mouths,  who  flock' d  for  shelter, 

bringing 

Horrible  tidings  of  the  enemy 
Who  had  devoured  their  fields  and  happy 

homes. 

Then  suddenly  like  a  low  earthquake  came 
The  rumour  that  the  foe  was  at  the  gates  ; 
And  climbing  a  cathedral  roof  that  night, 
I  saw  the  pitch-black  distance  sown  with  fire 
Gleam  phosphorescent  like  the  midnight 

sea, 

And  heard  at  intervals  mysterious  sounds, 
Like  far-off  thunder,  or  the  Atlantic  waves 
Clashing  on  some  great  headland  in  a 

storm, 
Come  smother 'd  from  afar.     But,  lingering 

yet, 

I  haunted  the  great  City  in  disguise, 
While  silently  the  fatal  rings  were  wound 
Around  about  it  by  the  Teuton  hosts  : 
Still,  as  I  am  a  soldier,  saw  no  face 
That  look'd  capitulation  :  rather  saw 
The    knitted    eyebrow  and    the  clenched 

teeth, 
The  stealthy  hand  that  fingered  with  the 

sword. 
The  eye  that  glanced  as  swift  as  Hunger's 

doth 


THE  FOOL    OF  DESTINY. 


323 


Towards  the  battlements.  Then  (for  at  last 
A  voice  was  raised  against  my  life)  I  sought 
Trochu,  my  schoolfellow  and  friend  in 

arms, 
And,  though  his  brow  darkened  a  moment's 

space, 
He  knew  me  faithful  and  reached  out  his 

hand 

To  save  me.     By  his  secret  help  I  found 
A  place  in  a  balloon,  that  in  the  dusk 
Ere  daylight  rose  upon  a  moaning  wind 
And  drifted  southward  with  the  drifting 

clouds  ; 

And  as  the  white  and  frosty  daylight  grew, 
And  opening  crimson  as  a  rose's  leaves 
The  clouds  to  eastward  parted,  I  beheld 
The  imperial  City,  gables,  roofs,  and  spires, 
White  and  fantastic  as  a  city  of  dream, 
Gleam   orient,  while   the    muffled    drums 

within 
Sounded  reveille  ;    then  a  red  flash  and 

wreath 

Of  vapour  broke  across  the  outer  line, 
Where  the  back  fortifications  frowning  rose 
Ring  above  ring  around  the  imperial  gates, 
And  flash  on  flash  succeeded  with  a  sound 
Most  faint  and  lagging  wearily  behind. 
Still  all  without  the  City  seemed  as  husht 
As  sleep  or  death.     But  as  the  reddening 

div 

Scatteied  the  mists,  the  tiny  villages 
Loomed    dim ;    and    there    were    distant 

glimmerings, 
And  far-off  muffled  sounds :  yet  scarce  a 

sign 

Showed  the  innumerable  enemy, — 
Who  snugly  housed   and  canopied  with 

stone 
Lay  hidden  in  their  strength ;    only  the 

watch-fire 
Gleam'd  here  and  there,  only  from  place  to 

place 
Masses  of  shadow  seem'd  to  move,  and 

light 
Was  glimmered  dimly  back  from  hidden 

steel ; 
And,  woefullest  sight  of  all<einiles  to  the 

west, 

Along  the  dark  line  of  the  foe's  advance, 
On  the  straight  rim  where  earth  and  heaven 

meet, 
The  forests    blazed,    and  to  the    driving 

clouds 


Cast  blood-red  phantoms  growing  dim  in 

day. 
Meantime,    like    one  whirl'd    in    a    dizzy 

dream, 

Onward  we  drove  below  the  driving  cloud, 
And  from  the  region  of  the  burning  fire 
And  smouldering  hamlet  rose  still  higher, 

and  saw 

The  white  stars  like  to  tapers  burning  out 
Above  the  region  of  the  nether  storm, 
And  the  illimitable  ether  growing 
Silent  and  dark  in  the  deep  wintry  dawn. 

Enter  a  MESSENGER. 

MESSENGER. 

Most  weighty  news,  my  liege,  from  Italy. 


Yes? 


NAPOLEON. 


MESSENGER. 


Rome  is  taken.     The  imperial  walls 
Yawn  where  the  cannon  smote  ;  in  the  red 

street 

Romans  embracing  shout  for  Liberty  ; 
From  Florence  to  Messina  bonfires  blaze, 
And  rockets  rise  and  wild  shouts  shake  the 

air ; 

And  with  the  thunder  in  his  aged  ears, 
Surrounded  by  his  cold-eyed  Cardinals, 
Clutching  his  spiritual  crown  more  close, 
Trembling  with  dotage,  sits  the  grey-haired 

Pope 
Anathematising  in  the  Vatican.          [Exit. 

OFFICER. 

Woe  to  the  head  on  whom  his  curse  shall 

fall, 

For  in  the  day  of  judgment  it  shall  be 
Better  with  Sodom  and  Gomorrah.    Wait ! 
This  is  the  twilight ;  red  will  rise  the  dawn. 

NAPOLEON. 

Peace,   friend ;    yet  if  it  ease  thy  heart, 

speak  on. 

I  would  to  God,  I  did  believe  in  God 
As  thou  dost.     Twilight  surely — 'tis  indeed 
A    twilight — and    therein  from    their  fair 

spheres 
Kings  shoot  like  stars.     How  many  nights 

of  late 
The  heavens  have  troubled  been  with  fiery 


Y  3 


324 


POLITICAL   MYSTICS. 


at  has 


Wilh  characters  like  monstrous  hieroglyphs, 
And  the  aurora,  brighter  than  the  day 
And  red  as  blood,  has  burst  from  west  to 
east. 

OFFICER. 

I  do  believe  the  melancholy  air 
Is  full  of  pain  and  portent. 

NAPOLEON. 

Would  to  God 

I  had  more  faith  in  God,  for  in  this  work 
I  fail  to  trace  His  hand  ;  but  rather  feel 
The  nether-shock  of  earthquake  everywhere 
Shaking  old  thrones  and  new,  those  rear'd 

on  rock 

As  well  as  those  on  sand.     All  darkens  yet, 
And  in  that  darkness,  while  with  cheeks  of 

snow 

The  affrighted  people  gaze  at  one  another, 
The  Teuton  still,  mouthing  of  Deity, 
Works  steadfastly  to  some  mysterious  end. 
My  heart  was  never  Rome's  so  much  as  now, 
Now,  when  she  shares  my  cup  of  agony. 
Agony  !    Is  this  agony  ?  then  indeed 
All  life  is  agony. 

OFFICER. 

Your  Imperial  Highness 
Is  suffering  !    Take  comfort,  Sire. 

NAPOLEON. 

It  is  nought — 

Only  a  passing  spasm  at  the  heart — 
'Tis  my  disease,  comrade  ;  'tis  my  disease ! 
So  leave  me  :  it  is  late  ;  and  I  would  rest. 

OFFICER. 

God  in  his  gracious  goodness  give  thee 
health  ! 

NAPOLEON. 

Pray  that  He  may  ;  for  I  am  deeply  sick — 
Too  sick  for  surgery — too  sick  for  drugs — 
Too  sick  for  man  to  heal.  'Tis  a  complaint 
Incident  to  our  house  ;  and  of  the  same 
Mine  imperial  uncle  died.  [Exit  Officer. 
France  in  the  dust, 
With  the  dark  Spectre  of  the  R«d  above 

her! 
Rome  fallen  !    Aye  me,  well  may  the  face 

of  heaven 

Burn  like  a  fiery  scroll.     Had  I  but  eyes 
To  read  whose  name  is  written  next  for 

doom ! 


The  Teuton's?    Oh  the  Serpent,  that 

bided 
His  time  so  long,  and  now  has  stabbed  so 

deep  ! 

Would  I  might  bruise  his  head  before  I  die  ! 

[Exit. 

Night.     NAPOLEON  sleeping.     CHORUS  of 
SPIRITS. 


What  shapes  are  ye  whose  shades  darken 
his  rest  this  night  ? 


Cold  from  the  grave  we  come,  out  of  the 
dark  to  the  light. 

A   VOICE. 

Voices  ye  have  that  moan,  and  eyes  ye  have 

that  weep, 
Ah  !  woe  for  him  who  feels  such  shadows 

round  his  sleep  ! 

CHORUS. 

Tho"  thou  wert  buried  and  dead, 

Still  would  we  seek  thee  and  find  thee, 
Ever  there  follows  the  tread 

Of  feet  from  the  tomb  behind  thee  ; 
Sleep,  shall  thy  soul  have  sleep  ? 

Nay,  but  be  broken  and  shaken. 
Gather  around  him  and  weep, 

Trouble  him  till  he  awaken. 

A    VOICE. 

Who,  in  imperial  raiment,  darkly  frowning 

stand, 
Laurel-leaves  in  their  hair,  sceptred,  yet 

sword  in  hand  ? 

ANOTHER   VOICE. 

Who  in  their  shadow  looms,  woman- eyed. 

woe-begone, 
And  bares  his  breast  to  show  the  piteous 

wounds  thereon  ? 

CHORUS. 
Peace,  they  are  Kings,  they  are  crowned  ; 

Kings,  tho'  their  realms  have  departed, 
Realms  of  the  grave  they  have  found, 

And  they  walk  in  the  same  heavy-hearted. 
Sleep  ?  did  their  souls  have  sleep  ? 

Nay,  for  like  his  was  their  being. 


THE  FOOL   OF  DESTINY. 


325 


Gather  around  him  and  weep, 
Awake  him  to  hearing  and  seeing. 

SPIRIT  OF  C<ESAR. 

Greater  than  thou  I  fell.     Die  ;  for  thy  day 

is  o'er. 
Thou  reap  the  world  with  swords?  thou 

wear  the  robe  I  wore  ? 
Up  like  the  bird  of  Jove,  I  rose  from  height 

to  height, 
Poised  on  the  heavenly  air,   eyes  to  the 

blood-red  light  ; 

Swift  came  the  flash  of  wrath,  one  long- 
avenging  glare — 
Down  like  a  stone  I  fell,  down  thro'  the 

dizzy  air ; 
Dark  burnt  the  heaven  above,  red  ran  the 

light  of  day, 
In  the  great  square  of  Rome,  bloody  I  fell, 

and  lay. 

CHORUS. 

Kings  of  the  realms  of  fear, 

Each  the  sad  ghost  of  the  other, 
One  by  one  step  near, 

Look  in  the  eyes  of  a  brother. 
Hush  !  draw  nearer  and  speak — 

And  ere  he  waketh  each  morrow 
Blow  on  his  bloodless  cheek 

With  the  chilly  wind  of  your  sorrow. 

SPIRIT  OF  BUONAPARTE. 

Greater  than  thou  I  fell.     Die,  Icarus,  and 

give  place. 
Thou  take  from  my  cold  grave  the  glory  and 

the  grace  ! 
Out  of  the  fire  I  came,  onward  thro'  fire  I 

strode  ; 
Under  my  path  earth  burnt,  o'er  it  the  pale 

stars  glow'd  ; 

Sun  of  the  earth,  I  leapt  up  thro'  the  won- 
dering sky, 
Naming  my  name  with  God's,  Kings  knelt 

as  I  went  by. 
Aye  ;  but  my  day  declined  ; — to  one  glad 

cry  of  the  free 
My  blood-red  sunset  died  on  the  eternal  Sea. 

A   VOICE. 

What  spirit  art  thou,  with  cold,  still  smile 
and  face  like  snow  ? 

SPIRIT. 

Orsini  ;  and  avenged.     Too  soon  I  struck 
the  blow. 


A  VOICE. 

And  thou,  with  bleeding  breast  and  eyes 
that  roll  in  pain  ? 

SPIRIT. 

I  am  that  Maximilian,  miserably  slain. 

A  VOICE. 

And  ye,    O    shadowy   things,    featureless 
wild,  and  stark  ? 

VOICES. 

We  are  the  nameless  ones  whom  he  hath 
slain  in  the  dark. 

A  VOICE. 

Ye  whom  this  man  hath  doom'd,  Spirits, 
are  ye  all  there  ? 

CHORUS. 

Not    yet  ;    they    come,    they    come — they 
darken  all  the  air. 

A  VOICE. 

O  latest  come,  and  what  are  ye  ?    Why  do 
ye  moan  and  call  ? 

CHORUS. 

O  hush  !     O  hush  !  they  come  to  speak  the 
bitterest  curse  of  all. 

SPIRITS. 

With  Sin  and  Death  our  mothers'  milk 

was  sour, 
The  womb  wherein  we  grew  from  hour 

to  hour 
Gather1  d  pollution  dark  from  the  polluted 

frame — 

Beside  our  cradles  naked  Infamy 
Caroused,   and  Lust  sat  smiling  hide- 
ously— 
We  grew  like  evil  weeds  apace,  and  knew 

not  shame. 
With  incantations  and  with  spells  most 

rank, 
The  fount  of  Knowledge  where  we  might 

have  drank, 
And  learnt  to  love  the  taste,  was  hidden 

from  our  eyes  ; 
And  if  we  learn1  d  to  spell  out   written 

speech, 
Thy  slaves  were  by,  and  we  had  books  to 

teach 
Falsehood  and  Filth  and  Sin,  Blasphemies, 

Scoffs,  and  Lies. 


326 


POLITICAL   MYSTICS. 


We  drank  of  poison,  ev'n  as  flowers  drink 

dew  ; 

We  ate  and  drank  of  poison  till  we  grew 
Noxious,  polluted,  black,  like  that  whereon 

we  fed  ; 
We  never  felt  the  light    and  the  free 

wind — 
Sunless  we  grew,  and  deaf,  and  dumb, 

and  blind — 
How  should  we  dream  of  God,  souls  that 

were  slain  and  dead  ? 
Love  with  her  sister  Reverence  passed 

our  way 

As  angels  pass,  unseen,  but  did  not  stay — 
We  had  no  happy  homes  wherein  to  bid 

them  dwell ; 
We  turn'd  from  God's  blue  heaven  with 

eyes  of  beast, 

We  heard  alike  the  atheist  and  the  priest, 
And  both  these  lied  alike  to  smooth  our 

hearts  for  Hell. 
Of  some,  both  Soul  and  Body  died  ;  of 

most, 
The  Body  fatten'd  on,   while  the  poor 

ghost, 
Prison' d  from  the  sweet  day,  was  withering 

in  woe ; 
Some  robed  in  purple  quaff' d  their  fatal 

cup, 
Some    out  of   rubied  goblets   drank  it 

up— 
We  did  not  know  God  was ;  but  now,  O 

God,  we  know. 
Lambs  of  thy  flock,  but  oh !  not  white 

and  fair ; 
Beasts  of  the  field,  tamed  to  thy  hand,  we 

were  ; 
Not  men  and  women — nay,  not  heirs  to 

light  and  truth : 
Some  fattening  ate  and  fed  ;  some  lay  at 

ease ; 

Some  fell  and  linger 'd  of  a  long  disease  ; 
But  all  look'd  on  the  ground — beasts  of  the 
field  forsooth. 

Ah  woe,  ah  woe,  for  those  thy  sceptre 

swayed, 
Woe  most  for  those  whose  bodies,  fair 

arrayed, 
Insolent,  sat  at  ease,  smiled  at  thy  feet  of 

pride  ; 
Woe  for  the  harlots  with  their  painted 

bliss  1 


Woe  for  the  red  wine-oozing  lips  they  kiss ! 

Woe  for  the  Bodies  that  lived,  woe  for  the 

Souls  that  died ! 

SEMI-CHORUS    I. 

Tho*  thou  wert  buried  and  dead, 
Still  would  they  seek  thee  and  find  tl 

Ever  there  follows  the  tread 
Of  feet  from  the  grave  behind  thee, 

SPIRIT  OF  HORTENSE. 

Woe  !  woe  !  woe  ! 

SEMI-CHORUS  II. 

Ye  who  saw  sad  light  fall, 

Thro'  the  chink  of  the  dungeon  gleaming, 
And  watch'd  your  shade  on  the  wall 

Till  it  took  a  sad  friend's  seeming  ; 
Ye  who  in  speechless  pain 

Fled  from  the  doom  and  the  danger, 
And  dragging  a  patriot's  chain 

Died  in  the  land  of  the  stranger  ; 
Men  who  stagger'd  and  died, 

Even  as  beasts  in  the  traces, 
Women  he  set  aside 

For  the  trade  of  polluting  embraces, 
Say,  shall  his  soul  have  sleep, 

Or  shall  it  be  troubled  and  shaken  ? 

CHORUS. 

Gather  around  him  and  weep, 
Trouble  him  till  he  awaken. 

NAPOLEON  (awakening}. 
Who's  there?    Who  speaks?— All  silent. 

O  how  slowly 

Moveth  the  dark  and  melancholy  night ! 
I  cannot  rest — I  am  too  sick  at  heart — 
I  have  had  ill  dreams.    The  inevitable  Eyes 
Are  watching,  and  the  weary  void  of  sleep 
Hath  voices  strangely  sad. 

\He  rises,  and  paces  the  chamber. 

O  those  dark  years 

Of  Empire  !     He  who  tames  the  tiger,  and 

lies 

Pillow'd  upon  its  neck  in  a  lone  cave, 
Is  safer.     Who  could  sleep  on  such  a  bed  ? 
Mine  eyes  were  ever  dry  of  the  pure  dew 
God  scatters  on  the  lids  of  happy  men  ; 
Watching  with  fascinated  gaze  the  orbs, 
Ring  within  ring  of  blank  and  bestial  light, 
Where  the  wild  fury  slept :  seeking  all  arts 
To  soothe  the  savage  instinct  in  its  throes 
Of  passionate  unrest.     One  cold  hand  held 


THE  FOOL    OF  DESTINY. 


327 


Sweet  morsels  for  the  furious  thing  to  lap, 
And  with  the  other,  held  behind  my  back, 
I  clutch'd  the  secret  steel :  oft,  lest  its  teeth 
Should  fasten  on  its  master,  cunningly 
Turning  its  wrath  against  the  shapes  that 

moved 

Outside  its  splendid  lair  !  until  at  last, 
Let  forth  to  the  mad  light  of  War,  it  sprang 
Shrieking  and  sought  to  rend  me.     O  thou 

beast ! 
Art  thou  so  wild  this  day  ?  and  dost  thou 

thirst 

To  fix  on  thine  imperial  ruler's  throat  ? 
Why,  have  I  bidden  thee  '  down,'  and  thou 

hast  crouch'd 
Tamely  as  any  hound  !    Thou  shalt  crouch 

yet. 
And  bleed  with  shamefuller  stripes  ! 

Let  me  be  calm, 

Not  bitter.     'Tis  too  late  for  bitterness. 
Yet  I  could  gnaw  my  heart  to  think  how 

France 
Hath  fail'd  me !  nay,  not  France,  but  rather 

those 

Whom  to  high  offices  and  noble  seats 
In  France's  name  I  raised.     I  bought  their 

souls — 
What    soul   can    power   not  buy?— and, 

having  lost 

The  blessed  measure  of  all  human  truth, 
Being  soulless,   these  betrayed  me  ;   yea, 

became 

A  brood  of  lesser  tigers  hungering 
With  their  large  eyes  on  mine.     I  did  not 

build 
My  thr.one  on  sand  ;  no,  no, — on  Lies  and 

Liars, 
Weaker  than  sand  a  thousandfold  ! 

In  this 

I  did  not  work  for  evil.     Tho'  my  means 
Were  dark  and  vile  perchance,  the  end  I 

sought 

Was  France's  weal,  and  underneath  my  care 
She  grew  as  tame  as  any  fatted  calf. 
I  never  did  believe  in  that  stale  cry 
Raised  by  the  newsman  and  the  demagogue, 
Though  for  mine  ends  I  could  cry  'Liberty  ! ' 
As  loud  as  any  man.     The  draff  of  men 
Are  as  mere  sheep  and  kine,  with  heads 

held  down 

Grazing,  or  resting  blankly  ruminant. 
These  must  be  tended,  must  be  shepherded. 


But  Frenchmen  are  as  wild  things  scarcely 

tamed, 
Brute  like  yet  fierce,   mad  too  with  some 

few  hours 

Of  rushing  freely  with  an  angry  roar. 
These  must  be  awed  and  driven.     By  a 

scourge 
Dripping  with  sanguine  drops  of  their  own 

blood, 
I  awed  them  :  then  I  drove  them  :  then  in 

time 
I    tamed    them.      Fool !    deeming    them 

wholly  mine, 

I  sought  to  snatch  a  little  brief  repose  ; 
But  with  a  groan  they  found  me,  and  I 

woke  ; 

And  since  they  seem'd  to  suffer  pain  I  said 
'  Loosen  the  yoke  a  little,'  and  'twas  done, 
And  they  could  raise  their  heads  and  gaze 

at  me 

And  the  wild  hunger  deepen'd  in  their  eyes, 
While  fascinated  on  my  throne  I  sat 
Forcing  a  melancholy  smile  of  peace. 
O  had  I  held  the  scourge  in  my  right  hand, 
Tighten'd  the  yoke  instead  of  loosening, 
It  had  not  been  so  ill  with  me  as  now  ! 
But  Pity  found  me  with  her  sister  Fear, 
And  lured  me.    He  who  sitteth  on  a  throne 
Should  have  no  counsellors  who  come  in 

tears ; 

But  rather  that  still  voice  within  his  brain, 
Imperturbable  as  his  own  cold  eyes 
And  viewless  as  his  coldly-flowing  blood  ; 
Rather  a  heart  as  strong  as  the  great  heart 
Driving  the  hot  life  through  a  lion's  thews  ; 
Rather  a  will  that  moves  to  its  desire 
As  steadfast  as  the  silent-footed  cloud. 
What  peevish  humour  did  my  mother  mix 
With  that  immortal  ichor  of  our  race 
Which  unpolluted  fill'd  mine  uncle's  veins? 
He  lash'd  the  world's  Kings  to  his  triumph- 
car 

And  sat  like  marble  while  the  fiery  wheels 
Dript  blood  beneath  him  :    tho'   the  live 

earth  shriek' d 

Below  him,  he  was  calm,  and  like  a  god 
Cold  to  the  eloquence  of  human  tears, 
Cold  to  the  quick,  cold  as  the  light  of  stars, 
Cold  as  the  hand  of  Death  on  the  damp 

brow, 

Cold  as  Death  brooding  on  a  battle-field 
In  the  white  after-dawn, — from  west  to  east 
Royal  he  moved  as  the  red  wintry  sun. 


3*8 


POLITICAL   MYSTICS. 


He  never  flatter'd  Folly  at  his  feet ; 
He  never  sought  to  syrup  Infamy  ; 
He,  when  the  martyrs  curst  him,  drew 

around  him 

The  purple  of  his  glory  and  passed  on 
Indifferently  like  Olympian  Jove. 
There  was  no  weak  place  in  the  steel  he 

wore, 
Where  women's  tongues  might  reach  his 

mighty  heart 

As  they  have  reach'd  at  mine.    O  had  I  kept 
A  heart  of  steel,  a  heart  of  adamant ; 
Had  I  been  deaf  to  clamour  and  the  peal 
Of  peevish  fools  ;  had  I  for  one  strong  hour 
Conjured  mine  uncle's  soul  to   mix  with 

mine, 

Sedan  had  never  slain  me  !     I  am  lost 
B)  tht!  damn'd  implements  mine  own  hands 

wrought — 
Things  that  were  made  as  slavish  tools  of 

peace, 

Never  as  glittering  weapons  meet  for  war. 
He  never  stoop' d  to  use  such  peaceful  tools  ; 
But,  for  all  uses, 
Made  the  sword  serve  him — yea,  for  sceptre 

and  scythe  ; 
Nay  more,  for  Scripture  and  for  counsellor  1 

Yet  he  too  fell.     Early  or  late,  all  fall. 
No  fruit  can  hang  for  ever  on  the  tree. 
Daily  the  tyrant  and  the  martyr  meet 
Naked  at  Death's  door,  with  the  fatal  mark 
Both  brows  being  branded.  Doth  the  world 

then  slay 

Only  its  anarchs  ?   Doth  the  lightning  flash 
Smite  Caesar  and  spare  Brutus?    Nay,  by 

heaven ! 

Rather  the  world  keeps  for  its  paracletes 
Torture  more  subtle  and  more  piteous  doom 
Than  it  dispenses  to  its  torturers. 
Tiberius,  with  his  foot  on  the  world's  neck, 
Smileth  his  cruel  smile  and  groweth  grey, 
Half  dead  already  with  'the  weight  of  years 
Drinking  the  death  he  is  too  frail  to  feel, 
While  in  his  noon  of  life  the  Man  Divine 
Hath  died  in  anguish  at  Jerusalem. 

\He  opens  a  Life  of  Jesus  and  reads. 
A  long  pause, 

Here  too  the  Teuton  works,  crafty  and  slow, 
Anatomising,  gauging,  questioning, 
Till  that  fair  Presence  which  redeem'd  the 
world 


Dwindles  into  a  phantom  and  a  name. 
Shall  he  slay  Kings,  and  spare  the  King  of 

Kings? 
In  her  fierce  madness  France  denied  her 

God, 

But  still  the  Teuton  doth  destroy  his  God 
Coldly  as  he  outwits  an  enemy. 
Yet  doth  he  keep  the  Name  upon  his  lips, 
And  coldly  dedicating  the  dull  deed 
To  the  abstraction  he  hath  christen'd  '  God,' 
To  the  creation  of  his  cogent  brain, 
Conjures  against  the  blessed  Nazarene, 
That  pallid  apparition  masculine, 
That  shining  orb  hemm'd  in  with  clouds  of 

flesh; 
Till,   darken'd  with   the  woe  of  his  own 

words, 
The  fool  can  turn  to  Wilhelm's  wooden 

face 

And  Bismarck's  crafty  eyes,  and  see  therein 
Human  regeneration,  or  at  least 
The    Teuton's     triumph    mightier     than 

Christ's. 
Lie  there,  Iconoclast !    Thou  art  thrice  a 

fool, 

Who,  having  nought  to  set  within  its  place 
But  civic  doctrine  and  a  naked  sword, 
Would  tear  from  out  its  niche  the  piteous 

bust 
Of  Him  whose  face  was  Sorrow's  morning 

star. 

[  Takes  up  a  second  Book,  and  reads. 

Mark,  now,  how  speciously  Theology, 
Leaving  the  broken  fragments  of  the  Life 
Where  the  dull  Teuton's  hand  hath  scatter'd 

them, 

Takes  up  the  cause  in  her  high  fields  of  air. 
'  Darkness  hath  lain  upon   the  earth  like 

blood, 
And  in  the  darkness  human  things  had 

shriek'd 

And  felt  for  God's  soft  hand,  and  agonised. 
But  overhead  the  awful  Spirit  heard, 
Yet  stirr'd  not  on  His  throne.    Then  lastly, 

One 

Dropt  like  a  meteor  stone  from  suns  afar, 
And  stirred  and  stretch'd  out  hands,  and 

lived,  and  knew 
That  He  indeed  had  dropt  from  suns  afar, 
That  He  had  fallen  from  the  Father's  breast 
Where  He  had  slumber'd  for  eternities. 
Hither  in  likeness  of  a  Man  He  came — 


THE  FOOL    OF  DESTINY. 


329 


He,  Jesus,  wander'd  forth  from  heaven  and 

said, 
"Lo,   I,   the  deathless  one,   will  live  and 

die! 

Evil  must  suffer — Good  ordains  to  suffer — 
Our  point  of  contact  shall  be  suffering, 
There  will  we  meet,  and  ye  will  hear  my 

voice  ; 

And  my  low  tones  shall  echo  on  thro'  time, 
And  one  salvation  proved  in  fatal  tears 
Be  the  salvation  of  Humanity."  ' 

Ah,  old  Theology,  thou  strikest  home  ! 
'  Evil  must  suffer — Good  ordains  to  suffer ' — 
Sayst  thou?    Did  He  then  quaff  His  cup 

of  tears 
Freely,  who  might  have  dash'd  it  down,  and 

ruled? 

The  world  was  ready  with  an  earthly  crown, 
And  yet  He  wore  it  not.   Ah,  He  was  wise. 
Had  He  but  sat  upon  a  human  throne, 
With  all  the  kingdom's  beggars  at  His  feet, 
And  all  its  coffers  open  at  His  side, 
He  had  died  more  shameful  death,  yea,  He 

had  fallen 
Even  as  the  Caesars.     Rule  the  world  with 

Love? 

Tame  savage  human  nature  with  a  kiss  ? 
Turn  royal  cheeks  for  the  brute  mob   to 

smite  ? 

He  knew  men  better,  and  He  drew  aside, 
Ordain'd  to  do  and  suffer,  not  to  reign. 

My  good  physician  bade  me  search  in 

books 

For  solace.     Can  I  find  it?    Verily, 
From  every  page  of  all  man's  hand  hath 

writ 

A  dark  face  frowns,  a  voice  moans  '  Vanity ! ' 
There  is  one  Book — one  only— that  for  ever 
Passeth  the  understanding  and  appeaseth 
The  miserable  hunger  of  the  heart — 
Behold  it — written  with  the  light  of  stars 
By  God  in  the  beginning. 

{Looks  forth.     A  starry  night. 

I  believe 
God  is,  but  more  I  know  not,  save  but 

this— 

He  passeth  not  as  men  and  systems  pass, 
For  while  all  change  the  Law  by  which  they 

change 
Survives  and  is  for  ever,  being  God. 


Our  sin,  our  loss,  our  misery,  our  death, 
Are  but  the  shadows  of  a  dream  :  the  hum 
Within  our  ears,  the  motes  within  our  eyes  ; 
Death  is  to  us  a  semblance  and  an  end, 
But  is  as  nothing  to  that  Central  Law 
Whereby  we  cannot  die. 

Yonder  blue  dome, 

Gleaming  with  meanings  mystically  wrought, 
Hath  been  from  the  beginning,  and  shall  be 
Until  the  end.  How  many  awe-struck  eyes 
Have  look'd  and  spelt  one  word — the  name 

of  God, 
And  call'd  it  as  they  listed,  Law,  Fate, 

Change, 

And  marvell'd  for  its  meaning  till  they  died, 
And  others  came  and  stood  upon  their 

graves 
And  read  in  their  turn,  and  marvelling  gave 

place. 
The  Kings  of  Israel  watch'd  it  with  wild 

orbs, 
Madden'd,  and  cried  the  Name,  and  drew 

the  sword. 

Above  the  tented  plain  of  Troy  it  bent 
After  the  sun  of  day  had  set  in  blood. 
The  superstitious  Roman  look'd  by  night 
And  trembled.     All  these  faded  phantom- 
like, 
And  lo  !  where  it  remaineth,  watch'd  with 

eyes 

As  sad  as  any  of  those  this  autumn  night,  — 
The  Higher  Law  writ  with  the  light  of 

Stars 
By  God  in  the  beginning.  .  .  . 

Let  me  sleep  ! 

Or  I  shall  gaze  and  gaze  till  I  grow  wild 
And  never  sleep  again.     Too  much  of  God 
Maketh  the  heart  sick.     Come  then  forth, 

thou  charm, 
Thou  silent  spell  wrung  from  the  blood-red 

flower, 

With  power  to  draw  the  curtains  of  the  soul 
And  shut  the  inevitable  Eyes  away. 

Dead  mother,  at  thy  knees  I  said  a  prayer — 
Lead  me  not  into  temptation,  and,  O  God, 
Deliver  me  from  evil.     Is  it  too  late 
To  murmur  it  this  night?    This  night,  O 

God, 
Whate'er  Thou  art  and  wheresoe'er  Thou 

art, 


350 


POLITICAL   MYSTICS. 


This  night  at  least,  when  I  am  sick  and 

fallen, 
Deliver  me  from  evil ! 

CHORUS. 
Under  the  Master's  feet  the  generations 

Like  ants  innumerably  come  and  go : 
He  leans  upon  a  Dial,  and  in  patience 

Watches  the  hours  crawl  slow. 

In   His  bright  hair  the  eternal  stars  are 

burning, 
Around  His  face  Heaven's  glories  burn 

sublime : 
He  heeds  them  not,  but  follows  with  eyes 

yearning 
The  Shadow  men  call  Time. 

Some  problem  holds  Him,  and  He  follows 

dreaming 
The  lessening   and  lengthening  of  the 

shade.— 
Under  His  feet,  ants  from  the  dark  earth 

streaming, 
Gather  the  men  He  made. 

He  heeds  them  not  nor  turns  to  them  His 

features — 
They  rise,  they  crawl,  they  strive,   they 

run,  they  die  ; 
How  should  He  care  to  look  upon  such 

creatures, 
Who  lets  great  worlds  roll  by  ? 

He  shall  be  nowise  heard  who  calls  unto 

Him, 
He  shall  be  nowise  seen  who  seeks  His 

face; 
The  problem  holds  Him — no  mere  man 

may  woo  Him, 
He  pauseth  in  His  place. 

So  hath  it  been  since  all  things  were  created, 
No  change  on  the  immortal  Face  may 

fall, 

Having  made  all,  God  paused,  and  fasci- 
nated, 
Watch' d  Time,  the  shade  of  all 

Call  to  the  Maker  in  thine  hour  of  trial, 
Call  with  a  voice  of  thunder  like  the  sea  : 

He  watches  living  shadows  on  a  Dial, 
And  hath  no  ears  for  thee. 


He  watches  on — He  feels  the  still  hours 

fleeing, 
He  heeds  thee  not,  but  lets  the  days 

drift  by ; 

And  yet  we  say  to  thee,  O  weary  being, 
Blaspheme  not,  lest  thou  die. 

Rather,  if  woe  be  deep  and  thy  soul  wander, 
Ant  among  ants  that  swarm  upon  a  sod, 

Watching  thy  shadow  on  the  grass-blade, 

ponder 
The  mystery  with  God. 

So  may  some  comfort  reach  thy  soul  way- 
faring, 
While  the  days  run  and  the  swift  glories 

shine, 
And  something  God-like  shall    that  soul 

grow,  sharing 
The  attitude  divine. 

Silent,  supreme,  sad,  wondering,  quiescent, 
Seeking  to  fathom  with  the  spirit-sight 

The  problem  of  the  Shadow  of  the  Present 
Born  of  eternal  Light. 


THE    TEUTON  MONOLOGUE. 
(1870.) 

To  stand  this  night  alone  with  Destiny, 
Alone  in  all  the  world  beneath  the  stars, 
And  hold  the  string  that  makes  the  puppets 

dance, 

Is  something  ;  but  to  feel  the  steadfast  will 
Deepen,  the  judgment  clear  itself,  the  gaze 
Grow  keener,  all  the  purpose  that  was  dim 
Brighten  distinct  in  the  serene  still  light 
Of  conquest— that  is  more  ;  more  than  all 

power, 
More  than  lip-homage,  more  than  crowns 

and  thrones, 

More  than  the  world  ;  for  it  is  life  indeed. 
O  how  the  dreams  and  hopes  and  plans 

cohere ! 
How  the  great  phalanx  broadens  !     Like  a 

wave 

It  washes  Europe,  and  before  its  sweep 
The  lying  idols,  based  on  quicksand,  shift,  ' 
Totter,  and  fall :  strewn  with  the  wreck'd 

and  dead, 

It  shrieks  and  gathers  up  a  flashing  crest 
In  act  to  drown  the  lingering  life  of  France. 


THE   TEUTON1  MONOLOGUE. 


331 


Tide  of  the  Teuton,  is  it  wonderful 
The  grand  old  King  sees  in  thy  victory 
The  strength  and  wrath  of  God  ? 

Here  then  I  pause, 

And  (let  me  whisper  it  to  mine  own  heart) 
I  tremble.    I  have  played  with  fire  ;  behold, 
It  hath  devour'd  God's  enemy  and  mine  ; 
And  tamely  at  my  bidding  croucheth  now 
With  luminous  eyes  half  closed.     This  fire 

is  Truth, 

And  by  it  I  shall  rise  or  fall.  This  fire 
Is  very  God's — I  know  it ;  and  thus  far 
God  to  my  keeping  hath  committed  it. 
What  next  ?  and  next  ?  There  at  my  feet 

lies  France, 
Bound,  stricken,  screaming, — yonder,  good 

as  dead. 
Pluckt  of  his  fangs,    the  imperial  Adder 

crawls, 
Tame  as  a  mouse.     I  have  struck  down 

these  twain, 

The  Liar,  and  the  creature  of  the  Liar  ; 
I  have  slain  these  twain  with  an  avenging 

flame  ; 

And  while  I  stand  victorious  comes  a  Voice 
Out  of  the  black  abysses  of  the  earth 
Whereat   I  pause  and  tremble.     'Tis  so 

easy 

To  cast  down  Idols  !    The  tide  so  pitilessly 
Washes  each  name  from  the  waste  sands  of 

time  ! 
'Twas  yestermorn  the   Man  of  Mysteries 

fell— 

Whose  turn  comes  next  ?  .  .  . 
From  Italy  to  the  blue  Baltic  rolls 
A  voice,  a  wind,  a  murmur  in  the  air, 
A  tone  full  of  the  sense  of  wind  and  waters 
And  the  faint  whispers  from  ethereal  fields, 
A  cry  of  anguish  and  of  mystery 
Echoed  by  the  Volcano  in  whose  depths 
The  monarchs  one  by  one  have  disappeared. 
And  men  who  hear  it  answer  back  one 

word, 
'  Liberty  ! ' — Cities     echo     through     their 

streets  ; 

The  word  is  wafted  on  from  vale  to  vale  : 
Heart-drowsy  Albion  answers  with  a  cheer, 
Feeble  yet    clear ;    the    great  wild  West 

refrains  ; 

Italy  thunders,  and  Helvetia 
Blows  the  wild  horn  high  up  among  her 

hills ; 


France,  wounded,  dying,  stretch' d  beneath 

my  feet, 
Gnaws  at  her  bonds  and  shrieks  in  mad 

accord 

(For  she  indeed  first  gave  the  thing  a  name), 
And  even  the  wily  Russian,  with  his  yoke 
Prest  on  innumerable  groaning  necks, 
Sleek  like  the  serpent,  smooths  his  frosty 

cheek 

To  listen,  fiercely  smiling  hisses  back 
The  strange  word  '  Liberty  ! '  between  his 

teeth, 

And  shivers  with  a  bitterer  sense  of  cold 
Than  ever  seized  him  in  that  lonely  realm 
O'er  which  he  paceth  hungry  and  alone. 
What  is  this  thing  that  men  call  '  Liberty'? 
Not  force,  not  tumult,  not  the  wind  and 

rain 

And  tempest,  not  th-  spirit  of  mere  Storm, 
Not  Earthquake,  not  the   Lightning,  not 

swift  Fire, 
Not  one  of  these ;  but  mightier  far  than 

these,— 

The  everlasting  principle  of  things, 
Out  of  whose  silence  issue  all,  the  rock 
Whereon  the  mountain  and  the  crater  stand, 
The  adamantine  pillars  of  the  Earth, 
Deep-based  beneath  the  ever- varying  air 
And  under  the  wild  changes  of  the  Sea, 
The  Inevitable,  the  Unchangeable, 
The    secret   law,    the    impulse,    and    the 

thought, 
Whereby  men  live  and  grow. 

Then  I,  this  night 

As  ever,  dare  with  a  man's  eyes  and  soul 
Hold  by  this  thing  whereof  the  foolish  rave, 
And  cry,  '  In  God's  name,  peace,  ye  winds 

and  waves, 

Ye  froths  and  bubbles  on  the  sea,  ye  voices 
Haunting  the  fitful  region  of  the  air  ! 
God  is  above  ye  all,  and  next  to  God 
The  Son  and  Holy  Spirit,  and  beneath 
These  twain  the  great  anointed  Kings  of 

Earth, 
And  underneath  the   Kings  the  Wise  of 

Wit, 
And    underneath    the    Wise    the    merely 

Strong, 

And  least  of  all,  clay  in  the  hands  of  all, 
The  base,  the  miserable,  and  the  weak.' 
What,  then,  is  this  that  ye  name  '  Liberty'? 
There  is  evermore  a  higher.    Not  like  waves 


332 


POLITICAL   MYSTICS. 


- 

the  Holy 


Beating  about  in  a  waste  sea  are  men, 
But  great,  small,  fair,  foul,  strong,  weak, 

miserable  ; — 

And  Liberty  is  law  creating  law 
Wherein  each  corporal  member  of  the  world 
Filleth  his  function  in  the  place  ordain'd. 
Child  at  the  knee,  look  in   thy  mother's 

face! 

Boy-student,  reverence  the  philosopher  ! 
Clown,  till  the  earth,  and  let  the  market 

thrive  ! 

Citizen,  doff  to  beauty  and  to  grace, 
To  antique  fame  and  holy  ancestry  ! 
Nobles,  blood  purified  from  running  long, 
Circle  of  sanctity,  surround  the  King  ! 
King,  stand  on  the  bare  height  and  raise 

thine  eyes, 

For  there  sits  God  above  thee,  reverencing 
The  perfect  Mirror  of  the  soul  of  things, 
Wherein  He  gazes  calmly  evermore, 
And  knows  Himself  divine  ! 

Thus  stands  for  ever 
The  eternal  Order  like  a  goodly  Tree, 
The  root  of  which  is  deep  within  the  soil. 
And  lo !    the  wind  and  rain  are  beating 

on  it, 

And  lightning  rends  its  branches  ;  yet  anon 
It  hangs  in  gorgeous  blossom  still-renewed, 
And  shoots  its  topmost  twig  up  through  the 

cloud 
To    touch    the   changeless    stars.       Herr 

Democrat 
Comes  with  his  blunt  rough  axe,  and  at 

its  root 
Strikes  shrieking  ;  the  earth's  parrots  echo 

him  ; 

Blow  follows  blow  ;  the  air  reverberates  ; 
But  the  Tree  stands.      Come  winds  and 

waves  and  lightnings, 
Come  axe-wielders,  come  ye  iconoclasts, 
And  spend  your  strength  in  vain.     What ! 

ye  would  stretch 

This  goodly  trunk,  this  very  Iggdrasil, 
Down  to  the  dusty  level  of  your  lives, 
Would  strew  the  soil  with  the  fair  blooms 

thereof, 
Would  tear  away  the  succulent  leaves  and 

make 

A  festal  chaplet  for  Silenus'  hair, 
A  drunken  garland  for  the  Feast  of  Fools. 
See,  yonder  blow  the  branches  where  the 

Great 


Tremble  like  ripen'd  fruit ;  yonder  the  Hoi 
Gleam  in  the  silvern  foliage,  sweet  and  fair  ; 
There  just  beneath  the  cloud,  most  dim 

in  height, 

The  flowers  of  monarchy  open  their  buds 
And  turn  their  starry  faces  upward  still. 
Strike  at  the  root,  my  little  democrat, 
Down  with  them  !     Down  with  the  whole 

goodly  Tree ! 
Down  even  with  that  fair  shoot  beyond  the 

cloud, 
Down  with  the  unseen  bloom  of  perfect 

height, 
Down  with  the  blossom  on  the  topmost 

twig, 
Down  with  the  light  of  God ! 

I  compare  further 

This  Order  to  a  Man,  body  and  brain, 
Heart,  lungs,  eyes,  feet  to  stand  on,  hands 

to  strike. 

The  King  is  to  the  realm  what  conscience  is 
To  manhood  :    the  true  statesman  is  the 

brain  ; 

And  under  these  subsist,  greater  and  less, 
The  members  of  the  body  politic. 
Behold  now,  this  alone  is  majesty  : 
The  incarnate  Conscience  of  the  people, 

fixed 

Beyond  the  body,  higher  than  the  brain, 
Yet  perfect  fruit  of  both, — the  higher  sense 
That  flashes  back  through  all  the  popular 

frame 

The  intuitions  and  the  lights  divine 
Whereby  the  world  is  guided  under  God. 
Nor  are  all  Kings  ancestral,  though  these 

same 

Are  highest.     Yonder  in  the  stormy  West 
The  plain  man  Lincoln  rose  to  majesty, 
Incarnated  the  conscience  and  the  will 
Of  the  strong  generation,  moved  to  his  end, 
Struck,    triumph'd  in   the   name  of  Con- 
science, fell, 
And  like  a  sun  that  sets  in  bloody  light, 
In  dying  darken'd  half  earth's  continents. 
.  What,  art  thou  there,  old  Phantom 

of  the  Red  ? 
Urge  on  thy  dreadful  legions,  for  in  truth 
There  is  no  face  in  France  this  day  with 

light 

So  troublous  to  the  eyes  of  victory. 
O  brave  one,  wert  thou  France's  will  and 

soul, 


THE   TEUTON  MONOLOGUE— THE  REPLY. 


333 


Why  we  might  tremble.     Let  there  rise  a 

land, 

As  strong  in  conscience  and  as  stern  in  soul 
As  we  have  been  to  follow  a  living  truth, 
And  it  might  slay  us  even  as  we  have  slain 
Imperial  France  and  the  Republic.     Now 
Supreme  we  stand,  our  symbol  being  the 

Sword, 
Our  King  the  hand  that  wields ;   in  that 

one  hand 

I  strike,  all  strike,  yea  every  Teuton  strikes. 
Reason  and  conscience  knitted  in  accord 
Are    deathless,    and    must    overcome    the 

world. 

The  higher  law  will  shape  them.     I  believe 
There  is  evermore  a  higher  ! 


THE  REPLY. 

BLUE  arc  of  heaven  whose  lattices 
Are  throng' d  with  starry  eyes  ; 

Vast  dome  that  over  land  and  seas 
Dost  luminously  rise, 

With  mystic  characters  enwrought 

More  strange  than  all  poetic  thought ! 

Hear,  Heaven,  if  thou  canst  hear  !  and  see, 

O  stars,  if  see  ye  can  ! 
Mark,  while  your  speechless  mystery 

Flows  to  a  Voice  in  man  : 
He  stands  erect  this  solemn  hour 
In  reverent  insolence  of  power. 

Order  divine,  whose  awful  show 

Dazzles  all  guess  or  dream  ; 
Sequence  unseen,  whose  mystic  flow 

Fulfils  the  immortal  scheme  ; 
Thou  Law  whereby  all  stand  or  stir, — 
Here  breathes  your  last  interpreter ! 

Because  one  foolish  King  hath  slain 

Another  foolish  King  ; 
Because  a  half-born  nation's  brain 

With  dizzy  joy  doth  ring  ; 
Because  at  the  false  Shepherd's  cry 
The  silly  sheep  still  throng  to  die  ; 

Because  purblind  Philosophy 

Out  of  her  cobweb' d  cave 
Croaks  in  a  voice  of  senile  glee 

While  empty  patriots  rave  ; 
Because  humanity  is  still 
The  gull  of  any  daring  will ; 


Because  the  Tinsel  Order  r.tands 

A  little  longer  yet ; 
Because  in  each  crown' d  puppet's  hands 

A  laurel-sprig  is  set, 
While  the  old  lame  device  controls 
The  draff  of  miserable  souls  ; 

Because  man's  blood  again  bathes  bright 

The  purple  and  the  throne, 
And  gray  fools  gladden  at  the  sight, 

And  maiden  choirs  intone  ; 
Because  once  more  the  puppet  Kings 
Dance,  while  Death's  lean  hand  pulls  the 
strings  ; 

Because  these  things  have  been  and  are, 

And  oft  again  may  be, 
Doth  this  man  swear  by  sun  and  star, 

And  oh  our  God  by  Thee, 
Framing  to  cheat  his  own  shrewd  eyes 
His  fair  cosmogony  of  lies. 

O  Lord  our  God  whose  praise  we  sing, 

Behold  he  deemeth  Thee 
A  little  nobler  than  the  King, 

And  greater  in  degree, 
Set  just  above  the  monarch's  mind, 
Greater  in  sphere  but  like  in  kind  ! 

O  calm  Intelligence  divine, 

Transcending  life  and  death, 

He  deems  these  bursting  bubbles  Thine, 
Blown  earthward  by  Thy  breath, — 

He  marks  Thee  sitting  well  content, 

Like  some  old  King  at  tournament. 

The  lists  are  set ;  upon  the  sod 
The  gleaming  columns  range  ; 

The  sign  is  given  by  Thee,  O  God, 
From  Thy  Pavilion  strange  : 

The  trumpets  blow,  the  champions  meet, 

One  screams — Thou  smilest  on  Thy  seat. 

Behold,  O  God,  the  Order  blest 

Of  Thy  great  chivalry  ! 
See  tinsel  crown  and  glittering  crest, 

Cold  heart  and  empty  eye  ! 
The  living  shout,  the  dying  groan, 
All  reddens  underneath  Thy  throne  ! 

Accept  Thy  chosen  !  great  and  good, 
Vouchsafe  them  all  they  seek ! 

Deepen  their  purple  in  man's  blood  ! 
Trumpet  them  with  man's  shriek  ! 

Paint  their  escutcheons  fresh,  O  Sire  ; 

With  heart's  blood  bright  and  crimson  fire  ! 


334 


POLITICAL   MYSTICS. 


- 


And  further,  from  the  fire  they  light 
Protect  them  with  Thy  hand, 

Beyond  the  bright  hill  of  the  fight 
Let  them  in  safety  stand  ; 

For  'twere  not  well  a  random  blow 

Should  strike  Thy  next-of-kin  below. 

O  God !  O  Father  !  Lord  of  All ! 

Spare  us,  for  we  blaspheme, 
See, — for  upon  our  knees  we  fall, 

And  hush  our  mocking  scream — 
Let  us  pray  low  ;  let  us  pray  low ; 
Thy  will  be  done  ;  Thy  Kingdom  grow  ! 

Blue  arc  of  heaven  whose  lattices 
Are  throng' d  with  starry  eyes, 

Still  dome  that  over  earth  and  seas 
Doth  luminously  rise  ; 

Fair  Order  mystically  wrought, 

More  strange  than  all  poetic  thought. 

He  fears  ye  all,  this  son  of  man, 

To  his  own  soul  he  lies, 
Lo  !  trembling  at  his  own  dark  plan 

He  contemplates  the  prize  : 
He  has  won  all,  and  lo  !  he  stands 
Clutching  the  glory  in  his  hands  ! 

To  one,  to  all,  on  life's  dark  way, 

Sooner  or  late  is  brought 
The  silent  solemnising  ray 

Illuminating  thought ; 
It  shines,  they  stand  on  some  lone  spot, 
Its  light  is  strange,  they  know  it  not. 

Sleeps,  like  a  mirror  in  the  dark, 
The  Conscience  of  the  Soul, 

Unknown,  where  never  eye  may  mark, 
While  days  and  seasons  roll ; 

But  late  or  soon  the  walls  of  clay 

Are  loosening  to  admit  the  day. 

Light  comes — a  touch— a  streak — a  beam- 
Child  of  the  unknown  sky — 

And  lo  !  the  Mirror  with  a  gleam 
Flashes  its  first  reply  : 

Light  brighteneth  :  and  all  things  fair 

Flow  to  the  glass  and  tremble  there. 

O  Lord  our  God,  Thou  art  the  Light, 

We  shine  by  Thee  alone ; 
Tho'  Thou  hast  made  us  mirrors  bright, 

The  gleam  is  not  our  own  ; 
Until  Thy  ray  shines  sweet  and  plain 
All  shall  be  dark  as  this  man's  brain. 

Thro'  human  thought  as  thro  'a  cave 
Creep  gently,  Light,  this  hour  ; 


Tho'  now  'tis  darker  than  the  grave, 

There  lies  the  shining  power 
Come  !  let  the  Soul  flash  back  to  Thee 
The  million  lights  of  Deity  ! 

THE   CITY  OF  MAN: 

COMFORT,  O  free  and  true  ! 

Soon  shall  there  rise  for  you 
A  City  fairer  far  than  all  ye  plan  ; 

Built  on  a  rock  of  strength, 

It  shall  arise  at  length, 
Stately  and  fair  and  vast,  the  City  meet  for 
Man! 

Towering  to  yonder  skies 

Shall  the  fair  City  rise, 
Dim  in  the  dawning  of  a  day  more  pure : 

House,  mart,  and  street,  and  square, 

Yea,  and  a  Fane  for  prayer — 
Fair,  and  yet  built  by  hands,  strong,  for  it 
shall  endure. 

In  the  fair  City  then 

Shall  walk  white-robed  men, 

Wash'd  in  the  river  of  peace  that  watereth  it ; 
Woman  with  man  shall  meet 
Freely  in  mart  and  street — 

At  the  great  council-board  woman  with  man 
shall  sit. 

Hunger  and  Thirst  and  Sin 
Shall  never  pass  therein  ; 
Fed  with  pure  dews  of  love,  children  shall 

grow. 

Fearless  and  fair  and  free, 
Honour 'd  by  all  that  see, 
Virgins  in  golden  zones  shall  walk  as  white 
as  snow. 

There,  on  the  fields  around, 
All  men  shall  till  the  ground, 
Corn  shall  wave  yellow,  and  bright  rivers 

stream  ; 

Daily,  at  set  of  sun, 
All,  when  their  work  is  done, 
Shall  watch  the  heavens  yearn  down  and  the 
strange  starlight  gleam. 

In  the  fair  City  of  men 

All  shall  be  silent  then, 
While,  on  a  reverent  lute,  gentle  and  low, 

Some  holy  Bard  shall  play 

Music  divine,  and  say 
Whence  those  that  hear  have  come,  whither 
in  time  they  go. 


THE   CITY  OF  MAN—ODE    TO  AUGUSTS   COMTE. 


33S 


No  man  of  blood  shall  dare 
Wear  the  white  mantle  there  ; 
No  man  of  lust  shall  walk  in  street  or 

mart ; — 

Yet  shall  the  Magdalen 
Walk  with  the  citizen  ; 
Yet  shall  the  sinner  stand  gracious  and  pure 
of  heart. 

Now,  while  days  come  and  go, 

Doth  the  fair  City  grow, 
Surely  its  stones  are  laid  in  sun  and  moon. 

Wise  men  and  pure  prepare 

Ever  this  City  fair. 

Comfort,  O  ye  that  weep  ;  it  shall  arise  full 
soon. 

When,  stately,  fair,  and  vast, 

It  doth  uprise  at  last, 

Who  shall  be  King  thereof,   say,   O  ye 
wise  ? — 

When  the  last  blood  is  spilt, 

When  the  fair  City  is  built, 
Unto  the  throne  thereof  the  Monarch  shall 


Flower  of  blessedness, 
Wrought  out  of  heart's  distress, 
Light  of  all  dreams  of  saintly  men  who  died, 


He  shall  arise  some  morn 
One  Soul  of  many  born, 
Lord  of  the  realms  of  peace,  Heir  of  the 
Crucified  ! 

O  but  he  lingereth, 
Drawing  mysterious  breath 

In  the  dark  depths  where  he  was  cast  as  seed. 
Strange  was  the  seed  to  sow, 
Dark  is  the  growth  and  slow  ; 

Still  hath  he  lain  for  long — now  he  grows 
quick  indeed. 

Quicken,  O  Soul  of  Man ! 
Perfect  the  mystic  plan — 
Come  from  the  flesh  where  thou  art  darkly 

wrought ; 

Wise  men  and  pure  prepare 
Ever  thy  City  fair — 

Come  when  the  City  is  built,   sit   on  the 
Throne  of  Thought. 

Earth  and  all  things  that  be, 
Wait,  watch,  and  yearn  for  thee, 
To  thee  all  loving  things  stretch   hands 

bereaven  ; — 

Perfect  and  sweet  and  bright, 
Lord  of  the  City  of  Light, 
Last  of  the  flowers  of  Earth,  first  of  the 
fruits  of  Heaven  ! 


Songs  of  the  Terrible  Year. 


%*  These  'Songs,'  inasmuch  as  they  formed  a  portion  of  the  'Drama  of  Kings,'  preceded  by  a 
long  period  the  publication  of  Victor  Hugo's  series  under  the  same  admirable  title.  The  '  Drama 
of  Kings '  was  written  under  a  false  conception,  which  no  one  discarded  sooner  than  the  author ; 
but  portions  of  it  are  preserved  in  the  present  collection,  because,  although  written  during  the  same 
feverish  and  evanescent  excitement,  they  are  the  distinct  lyrical  products  of  the  author's  mind,  and 
perfectly  complete  in  themselves. — R.  B. 


ODE   TO    THE  SPIRIT  OF 

AUGUSTE   COMTE. 

(1871.) 

SPIRIT  of  the  great  brow ! 
Fire  hath  thy  City  now  : 
She  shakes  the  sad  world  with  her  troubled 

scream  ! 

O  spirit  who  loved  best 
This  City  of  the  West, 
Hark  !    loud    she   shattered  cries  —  great 
Queen  of  thy  great  Dream. 


But,  as  she  passes  by 
To  the  earth's  scornful  cry, 
What  are  those  Shapes  who  walk  behind  so 

wan? — 

Martyrs  and  prophets  born 
Out  of  her  night  and  morn  : 
Have  we  forgot  them  yet  ? — these,  the  great 
friends  of  Man. 


We  name  them  as  they  go, 
Dark,  solemn-faced,  and  slow-" 


336 


SONGS   OF   THE    TERRIBLE    YEAR. 


Voltaire,  with  saddened  mouth,  but  eyes 

still  bright, 

Turgot,  Malesherbes,  Rousseau, 
Lafayette,  Mirabeau — 
These  pass  and  many  more,  heirs  of  large 
realms  of  Light. 

Greatest  and  last  pass  thou  ! 
Strong  heart  and  mighty  brow, 
Thine  eyes  surcharged  with    love  of   all 

things  fair ; 

Facing  with  those  grand  eyes 
The  light  in  the  sweet  skies, 
While  thy  shade  earthward  falls,  darkening 
my  soul  to  prayer. 

Sure  as  the  great  sun  rolls, 
The  crown  of  mighty  souls 
Is    martyrdom,   and   lo !    thou   hast    thy 

crown. 

On  her  pale  brow  there  weighed 
Another  such  proud  shade  — 
O,  but  we  know  you  both,  risen  or  stricken 
down. 

Sinful,  mad,  fever-fraught, 
At  war  with  her  own  thought, 
Great-soul'd,  sublime,  the  heir  of  constant 

pain, 

France  hath  the  dreadful  part 
To  keep  alive  Man's  heart, 
To  shake  the  sleepy  blood  into  the  slug- 
gard's brain  ; 

Ever  in  act  to  spring, 

Ever  in  suffering, 
To  point  a  lesson  and  to  bear  the  load, 

Least  happy  and  least  free 

Of  all  the  lands  that  be, 
Dying  that  all  may  live,  first  of  the  slaves 
of  God. 

To  try  each  crude  desire 
By  her  own  soul's  fierce  fire, 
To  wait  and  watch  with  restless  brain  and 

heart, 

To  quench  the  fierce  thirst  never, 
To  feel  supremely  ever, 
To  rush  where  cowards  crawl — this  is  her 
awful  part. 

Ever  to  cross  and  rack, 
Along  the  same  red  track, 
Genius  is  led,  and  speaks  its  soul  out  plain; 


Blessed  are  those  that  give — 
They  die  that  man  may  live, 
Their  crown  is  martyrdom,  their  privilege  is 
pain. 

Spirit  of  the  great  brow  ! 

I  see  thee,  know  thee  now — 
Last  of  the  flock  who  die  for  man  each  day. 

Ah,  but  /  should  despair 

Did  I  not  see  up  there 
A  Shepherd  heavenly-eyed  on  the  heights 
far  away. 

No  cheat  was  thy  vast  scheme 
Tho'  in  thy  gentle  dream 
Thou  saw'st  no  Shepherd  watching  the  wild 

throng — 

Thou,  walking  the  sad  road 
Of  all  who  seek  for  God, 
Blinded  became  at  last,  looking  at  Light  so 
long. 

Yet  God  is  multiform, 
Human  of  heart  and  warm, 
Content  to  take  what  shape  the  Soul  loves 

best ; 

Before  our  footsteps  still, 
He  changeth  as  we  will — 
Only,  -  with  blood  alone  we  gain  Him,  and 
are  blest. 

O,  latest  son  of  her, 
Freedom's  pale  harbinger, 
I  see  the  Shepherd  whom  thou  could'st  not 

find; 

But  on  thy  great  fair  brow, 
As  thou  didst  pass  but  now, 
Bright  burnt  the  patient  Cross  of  those  who 
bless  mankind. 

And  on  her  brow,  who  flies 

Bleeding  beneath  the  skies, 
The  mark  was  set  that  will  not  let  her  rest — 

Sinner  in  all  men's  sight, 

Mocker  of  very  Light, 

Yet  is  she  chosen  thus,  martyr' d — and  shall 
be  blest. 

Go  by,  O  mighty  dead  ! 
My  soul  is  comforted  ; 
The  Shepherd  on   the  summit  needs  no 

prayers  ; 

Best  worshipper  is  he 
Who  suffers  and  is  free — 
That  Soul  alone  blasphemes  which  trembles 
and  despairs, 


A    DIRGE  FOR   KINGS. 


337 


A   DIRGE  FOR  KINGS. 

STRANGE  are  the  bitter  things 
God  wreaks  on  cruel  Kings  ; 
Sad  is  the  cup  drunk  up 

By*  Kings  accurst. 
In  secret  ways  and  strong 
God  doth  avenge  man's  wrong. 
The  least,  God  saith,  is  Death, 

And  Life  the  worst. 

Sit  under  the  sweet  skies  ; 
Think  how  Kings  set  and  rise, 
Think,  wouldst  thou  know  the  woe 

In  each  proud  breast  ? 
Sit  on  the  hearth  and  see 
Children  look  up  to  thee — 
Think,  wouldst  thou  own  a  throne, 

Or  lowly  rest  ? 

Ah,  to  grow  old,  grow  old, 
Upon  a  throne  of  gold— 
Ah,  on  a  throne,  so  lone, 

To  wear  a  crown  ; 
To  watch  the  clouds,  the  air, 
Lest  storm  be  breeding  there — 
Pale,  lest  some  blast  may  cast 

Thy  glory  down. 

He  who  with  miser's  ken 
Hides  his  red  gold  from  men, 
And  wakes  and  grieves,  lest  thieves 

Be  creeping  nigh  ; 
He  who  hath  murder  done, 
And  fears  each  rising  sun, 
Lest  it  say  plain  '  O  Cain, 

Rise  up  and  die  ! ' 

These,  and  all  underlings, 
Are  blesseder  than  Kings, 
For  ah  !  by  weight  of  fate 

Kings'  hearts  are  riven  ; 
With  blood  and  gold  they  too 
Reckon  their  sad  days  thro' — 
They  fear  the  plan  of  man, 

The  wrath  of  heaven. 

In  the  great  lonely  bed, 

Hung  round  with  gold  and  red, 

While  the  dim  light  each  night 

Burns  in  the  room, 
They  lie  alone  and  see 
The  rustling  tapestry, 


Lest  Murther's  eyes  may  rise 
Out  of  the  gloom. 

Dost  thou  trust  any  man  ? 
Thou  dost  what  no  King  can. 
Friend  hast  thou  near  and  dear? 

A  King  hath  none. 
Hast  thou  true  love  to  kiss  ? 
A  King  hath  no  such  bliss, 
On  no  true  breast  may  rest 

Under  the  sun. 

Ah,  to  sit  cold,  sit  cold, 
Upon  a  throne  of  gold, 
Forcing  the  while  a  smile 

To  hide  thy  care  ; 
To  taste  no  cup,  to  eat 
No  food,  however  sweet, 
But  with  a  drear  dumb  fear, 

Lest  Death  be  there ! 

Ah,  to  rule  men,  and  know 
How  many  wish  thee  low — 
That  'neath  the  sun,  scarce  one 

Would  keep  thee  high  : 
To  watch  in  agony 
The  strife  of  all  things  free, 
To  dread  the  mirth  of  Earth 

When  thou  shalt  die  ! 

Hast  thou  a  hard  straw  bed  ? 
Hast  thou  thy  crust  of  bread  ? 
And  hast  thou  quaffed  thy  draught 

Of  water  clear? 

And  canst  thou  dance  and  sing  ? — 
O  blesseder  than  a  King  ! 
O  happy  one  whom  none 

Doth  hate  or  fear  ! 

Wherefore,  though  from  the  strong 
Thou  sufferest  deep  wrong, 
Tho"  Kings,  with  ire  and  fire, 

Have  wrought  thee  woe  : 
Pray  for  them  !  for  I  swear 
Deeply  they  need  thy  prayer — 
Most  in  their  hour  of  power, 

Least  when  cast  low. 

And  when  thou  easiest  down 
King,  sceptre,  throne,  and  crown, 
Pause  that  same  day,  and  pray 

For  the  accurst ; 

Since  in  strange  ways  and  strong, 
God  doth  avenge  man's  wrong — 
The  least,  God  saith,  is  Death, 

And  Life  the  worst. 

Z 


338 


SONGS   OF  THE    TERRIBLE    YEAR. 


THE   PERFECT  STATE. 

WHERE  is  the  perfect  State 
Early  most  blest  and  late, 

Perfect  and  bright  ? 
Tis  where  no  Palace  stands 
Trembling  on  shifting  sands 

Morning  and  night. 
'Tis  where  the  soil  is  free, 
Where,  far  as  eye  may  see, 
Scattered  o'er  hill  and  lea, 

Homesteads  abound  ; 
Where  clean  and  broad  and  sweet 
(Market,  square,  lane,  and  street, 
Belted  by  leagues  of  wheat), 

Cities  are  found. 

Where  is  the  perfect  State 
Early  most  blest  and  late, 

Gentle  and  good  ? 
'Tis  where  no  lives  are  seen 
Huddling  in  lanes  unseen, 

Crying  for  food ; 
'Tis  where  the  home  is  pure, 
'Tis  where  the  bread  is  sure, 
'Tis  where  the  wants  are  fewer, 

And  each  want  fed  ; 
Where  plenty  and  peace  abide, 
Where  health  dwells  heavenly-eyed, 
"Where  in  nooks  beautified, 

Slumber  the  Dead. 

Where  is  the  perfect  State 
Unvexed  by  Wrath  and  Hate, 

Quiet  and  just  ? 
Where  to  no  form  of  creed 
Fetter'd  are  thought  and  deed, 

Reason  and  trust. 
'Tis  where  the  great  free  mart 
Broadens,  while  from  its  heart 
Forth  the  great  ships  depart, 

Blown  by  the  wind  ; 
'Tis  where  the  wise  men's  eyes, 
Fixed  on  the  earth  and  skies, 
Seeking  for  signs,  devise 

Good  for  mankind. 

Where  is  the  perfect  State, 
Holy  and  consecrate, 

Blessedly  wrought? 
'Tis  where  all  waft  abroad 
Wisdom  and  faith  in  God, 

Beautiful  thought. 


'Tis  where  the  Poet's  sense 
Deepens  in  reverence, 
While  to  his  truths  intense 

Multitudes  turn. 
Where  the  bright  sons  of  art, 
Walking  in  street  or  mart, 
Feel  mankind's  reverent  heart 

Tremble  and  yearn. 

Say,  is  the  perfect  State, 
Strong  and  self-adequate, 

There  where  it  stands, 
Perfect  in  praise  of  God, 
Casting  no  thoughts  abroad 

Over  the  lands  ? 
Nay  :  for  by  each  man's  side 
Hangeth  a  weapon  tried ; 
Nay  :  for  wise  leaders  guide 

Under  the  Lord. 
Nor,  when  a  people  cries, 
Smiling  with  half-shut  eyes, 
Waiteth  this  State, — but  flies, 

Lifting  the  Sword. 

Where  is  the  perfect  State  ? 
Not  where  men  sit  and  wait, 

Selfishly  strong  ; 
While  some  lost  sister  State 
Crieth  most  desolate, 

Ruin'd  by  wrong  ; 
Not  where  men  calmly  sleep, 
Tho'  all  the  world  should  weep 
Not  where  they  merely  heap 

Gold  in  the  sun  : 
Not  where  in  charity 
Men  with  mere  dust  are  free, 
When  o'er  the  weary  sea 

Murder  is  done. 

Which  is  the  perfect  State  ? 
Not  the  self-adequate 

Coward  and  cold ; 
Not  the  brute  thing  of  health, 
Swollen  with  gather'd  wealth, 

Sleepy  and  old. 
Nay,  but  the  mighty  land 
Ever  with  helping  hand, 
Ever  with  flaming  brand, 

Rising  in  power  : 
This  is  the  fair  and  great, 
This  the  evangel  State, 
Letting  no  wrong' d  land  wail 

In  the  dark  hour. 


THE  PERFECT  STATE— THE   TWO    VOICES. 


339 


This  is  the  perfect  State, 
Early  in  arms  and  late  ; 

Blessed  at  home  ; — 
Ready  at  Freedom's  cry 
Forward  to  fare  and  die, 

Over  the  foam. 

Loving  States  great  and  small, 
Loving  home  best  of  all, 
Yet  at  the  holy  call 

Springing  abroad  : 
This  is  the  royal  State, 
Perfect  and  adequate, 
Equal  to  any  fate, 

Chosen  of  God ! 


THE    TWO    VOICES. 

(January  1871.) 

FIRST  VOICE. 

FLY  to  me,  England  !    Hie  to  me, 

Now  in  mine  hour  of  woe  ; 
Haste  o'er  the  sea,  ere  I  die,  to  me  ; 
Swiftly,  my  Sister  !  stand  nigh  to  me. 

Help  me  to  strike  one  blow  ! 
Over  the  land  and  the  water, 
Swifter  than  winds  can  go, 
Up  the  red  furrow  of  slaughter, 
Down  on  the  lair  of  the  foe  ! 
Now,  when  my  children  scream  madly  and 

cling  to  me  ; 
Now,  when  I  droop  o'er  the  dying  they 

bring  to  me  ; 
Come  to  me,  England  !    O  speak  to  me, 

spring  to  me ! 
Hurl  the  assassin  low ! 

II. 

SECOND  VOICE. 

Woe  to  thee  ?    I  would  go  to  thee 

Faster  than  wind  can  flee  ; 
Doth  not  my  fond  heart  flow  to  thee  ? 
Would  I  might  rise  and  show  to  thee 

All  that  my  love  would  be  ! 
But  behold,  they  bind  me  and  blind  me  ; 

Cowards,  yet  born  of  me  ; 
They  fasten  my  hands  behind  me, 

I  am  chain'd  to  a  rock  in  the  sea. 


Alas,  what  availeth  my  grief  while  I  sigh  for 

thee? 
Traitors  have  trapt  me — I  struggle — I  cry 

for  thee — 
Come  to  thee,  Sister  ?    Yea,  were  it  to  die 

for  thee  ! — 
O  that  my  hands  were  free ! 

in. 
FIRST  VOICE, 

Pray  for  me,  Sister  !  say  for  me 

Prayers  until  help  is  nigh  ; 
Send  thy  loud  voice  each  way  for  me, 
Trouble  the  night  and  the  day  for  me, 

Waken  the  world  and  the  sky : 
Say  that  my  heart  is  broken, 
Say  that  my  children  die  ; 
With  blood  and  tears  for  thy  token, 

Plead  till  the  nations  reply. 
Plead  to  the  sea,  and  the  earth,  and  the  air 

for  me ! 
Move  the  hard  heart  of  the  world  till  it  care 

for  me — 
Come  to  me,    England  ! — at  least  say  a 

prayer  for  me, 
Waken  the  winds  with  a  cry  ! 

IV. 
SECOND   VOICE. 

Doom  on  me,  Hell's  own  gloom  on  me, 

Blood  and  a  lasting  blame  ! 
Already  the  dark  days  loom  on  me, 
Cold  as  the  shade  of  the  tomb  on  me ; 

I  am  call'd  by  the  coward's  name. 
Shall  I  hark  to  a  murder'd  nation? 

Shall  I  sit  unarm'd  and  tame  ? 
Then  woe  to  this  generation, 

Tho'  out  of  my  womb  they  came. 
Betrayed  by  my  children,  I  wail  and  I  call 

for  thee  ; 
Not  tears,  but  my  heart's  blood,  O  Siste,-, 

should  fall  for  thee. 
My  children  are  slaves,  or  would  strike  one 

and  all  for  thee  : 
Shame  on  them,  shame-!  shame  !  shame  ! 

v. 

FIRST  VOICE. 

Pain  for  thee  !  all  things  wane  for  thee 
In  truth,  if  this  be  so, 


340 


SONGS   OF  THE   TERRIBLE    YEAR. 


Fatal  will  be  the  stain  for  thee, 
Dying,  I  mourn  and  'plain  for  thee, 

Since  thou  art  left  so  low  : 
For  Death  can  come  once  only, 
Tho'  bitterly  comes  the  blow  ; 
But  Shame  abideth,  and  lonely 

Feels  a  sick  heart  come  and  go. 
Homeless  and  citiless,  yet  I  can  weep  for 

thee; 
Fast  comes  the  morrow  with  anguish  most 

deep  for  thee ; 
Dying,  I  mourn  for  the  sorrow  they  heap 

for  thee  : 
Thine  is  the  bitterest  woe. 


VI. 
SECOND  VOICE. 

Mourn  me  not,  Sister  !  scorn  me  not ! 

Pray  yet  for  mine  and  me  ; 
Tho'  the  old  proud  fame  adorn  me  not, 
The  sore  grief  hath  outworn  me  not : 

Wait ;  I  will  come  to  thee. 
I  will  rend  my  chains  asunder, 

I  will  tear  my  red  sword  free, 
I  will  come  with  mine  ancient  thunder, 

I  will  strike  the  foe  to  his  knee. 
Yea  !  tho'  the  knife  of  the  butcher  is  nigh 

to  thee ; 
Yea !    while    thou    screamest    and  echoes 

reply  to  thee  ; 
Comfort,  O  France ;  for  in  God's  name,  I 

fly  to  thee— 
Sword  in  hand,  over  the  sea ! 


ODE  BEFORE  PARIS. 

(December  1870.) 

CITY  of  loveliness  and  light  and  splendour, 
City  of  Sorrows,  hearken  to  our  cry ; 

O  Mother  tender, 
O  Mother  marvellously  fair, 
And  fairest  now  in  thy  despair, 
Look  up  !    O  be  of  comfort  1     Do  not 

die! 
Let  the  black  hour  blow  by. 

Cold  is  the  night,  and  colder  thou  art  lying. 
Gnawing  a  stone  sits  Famine  at  thy  feet 
Shivering  and  sighing ; 


Blacker  than  Famine,  on  thy  breast, 
Like  a  sick  child  that  will  not  rest, 
Moans  Pestilence  ;  and  hard  by,  with 

fingers  fleet, 
Frost  weaves  his  winding-sheet. 

Snow,  snow  !  the  wold  is  white  as  one  cold 

lily. 

Snow  :  it  is  frozen  round  thee  as  hard 
as  lead  ; 

The  wind  blows  chilly  ; 
Thou  liest  white  in  the  dim  night, 
And  in  thine  eyes  there  is  no  light, 
And  the  Snow  falleth,  freezing  on  thy 

head, 
And  covering  up  thy  dead. 

Ah,   woe  !    thy  hands,   no  longer  flower- 
bearing, 

Press  stony  on  thy  heart  ;    and  that 
heart  bleeds ; 

Thine  eyes  despairing 
Watch  while  the  fierce  Fire  clings  and 

crawls 
Through  falling  roofs  and  crumbling 

walls. 
Ah,  woe !  to  see  thee  thus,  the  wild 

soul  pleads, 
The  wild  tongue  intercedes. 

O,  we  will  cry  to  God,  and  pray  and  plead 

for  thee  ; 

We,  with  a  voice  that  troubles  heaven 
and  air, 

Will  intercede  for  thee  : 
We  will  cry  for  thee  in  thy  pain, 
Louder  than  storm  and  wind  and 

rain  ; 
What  shape  among  the  nations  may 

compare 
With  thee,  most  lost,  most  fair  ? 

Yea,  thou  hast  sinned  and  fallen,  O  City 

splendid, 

Yea,  thou  hast  passed  through  days  of 
shamefullest  woe — 

And  lo  !  they  are  ended — 
Famine  for  famine,  flame  for  flame, 
Sorrow  for  sorrow,  shame  for  shame, 
Verily  thou  hast  found  them  all  ;— and 

lo! 
Night  and  the  falling  snow. 


ODE  BEFORE  PARIS- A   DIALOGUE  IN  THE  SNOW.       341 


Let  Famine  eat  thy  heart,   let  Fire  and 

Sorrow 

Hold  thee,  but  turn  thy  patient  eyes 
and  see 

The  dim  sweet  morrow. 
Better  be  thus  than  what  thou  wast, 
Better  be  stricken  and  overcast, 
Marty r'd  once  more,  as  when   to  all 

things  free 
Thy  lips  cried  '  Liberty  ! ' 

Let  the  Snow  fall !  thou  shall  be  sweeter 

and  whiter  ; 

Let  the  Fire  burn  !  under  the  morning 
sky 

Thou  shall  look  brighter. 
Comfort  thy  sad  soul  through  the 

night ; 

Turn  to  the  east  and  pray  for  light ; 
Look  up  !    O  be  of  comfort !    Do  not 

die! 
Let  the  black  hour  blow  by  ! 


A   DIALOGUE  IN  THE  SNOW. 

(Before  Paris,  December  1870.) 
DESERTER. 

O,  I  AM  spent !    My  heart  fails,  and  my 

limbs 
Are  palsied.     Would  to  God  I  were  dead  ! 

SISTERS  OF  MERCY. 

Stand  !    What  art  thou,  who  like  a  guilty 

thing 
Creepest  along  the  shadow,  stooping  low? 

DESERTER. 

A  man.   Now  stand  aside,  and  let  me  pass. 

SISTERS. 

Not  yet.     Whence  fleest  thou?    Whither 
dost  thou  go  ? 

DESERTER. 

From  Famine  and   Fire.     From    Horror. 
From  Frost  and  Death. 

SISTERS. 

O  coward  !  traitor  to  unhappy  France  ! 
Stand  forward  in  the  moon,  that  it  may  light 
The  blush  of  shame  uoon  thy  guilty  cheek  ! 


Lo,  we  are  women,  yet  we  shiver  cold 
To  look  upon  so  infamous  a  thing. 

DESERTER. 

Nay,  look  your  fill,  I  care  not — stand  and 
see. 

SISTERS. 

0  horror !  horror !  who  hath  done  this  deed  ? 

DESERTER. 

What  say  ye  ?  am  I  fair  to  look  upon  ? 

SISTERS. 

The  dead  are  fairer.     O  unhappy  one  ! 

DESERTER. 

Why  do  ye  shudder  ?    Am  I  then  so  foul  ? 

SISTERS. 
There  is  no  living  flesh  upon  thy  bones. 

DESERTER. 

Famine  hath  fed  upon  my  limbs  too  long. 

SISTERS. 

And  thou  art  rent  as  by  the  teeth  of  hounds. 

DESERTER. 

Fire  tore  me,  and  what  blood  I  have  I  bleed. 

SISTERS. 

Thine  eyes  stare  like  the  blank  eyes  of  a 
corpse. 

DESERTER. 

They  have  look'd  so  close  on  horror  and  so 
long, 

1  cannot  shut  them  from  it  till  I  die. 

SISTERS. 

Thou  crawlest  like  a  man  whose  sick  limbs 
fail. 

DESERTER. 

Ha !  Frost  is  there,  and  numbs  me  like  a 
snake. 

SISTERS. 

God  help  thee,  miserable  one  ;  and  yet, 
Better  if  thou  hadst  perish'd  in  thy  place 
Than    live    inglorious,    tainted    with    thy 
shame. 

DESERTER. 

Shame  ?    I  am  long  past  shame.     I  know 
her  not. 


342 


SONGS   OF   THE    TERRIBLE    YEAR. 


SISTERS. 

Is  there  no  sense  of  honour  in  thy  soul  ? 

DESERTER. 

Honour?     Why  see,   she  hath  me    fast 

enough : 
These  are  her  other  names,  Fire,  Famine, 

and  Frost, — 
Soon  I  shall  hear  her  last  and  sweetest, — 

Death. 

SISTERS. 

Hast  thou  no  care  for  France,  thy  martyr' d 
land? 

DESERTER. 

What  hath  she  given  me  ?  Curses  and  blows. 

SISTERS. 

O  miserable  one,  remember  God  ! 

DESERTER. 

God?    Whohathlook'donGod?    Where 
doth  He  dwell? 

0  fools,  with  what  vain  words  and  empty 

names 
Ye  sicken  me.    Honour,  France,  God  !  All 

these— 
Hear  me— I  curse.   Why,  look  you,  there's 

the  sky, 

Here  the  white  earth,  there,  with  its  bleed- 
ing heart, 

The  butcher'd  City ;  here  half  dead  stand  I. 
A  murder'd  man,  grown  grey  before  my 

time, 

Forty  years  old — a  husband,  and  a  father — 
An  outcast  flying  out  of  Hell.    Who  talks 
To  me  of  '  honour '  ?  The  first  tears  I  wept 
When  standing  at  my  wretched  mother's 

knee, 
Because  her  face  was  white,  and  she  wore 

black. 

That  day  the  bells  rang  out  for  victory. 
Then,  look  you,  after  that  my  mother  sat 
Weeping  and  weary  in  an  empty  house, 
And  they  who  look'd  upon  her  shrunken 

cheeks 
Fed  her  with  'honour.'    'Twas  too  gentle 

fare,— 
She  died.    Nay,  hearken  !    Left  to  seek  for 

bread, 

1  like  a  wild  thing  haunted  human  doors 
Searching  the  ash  for  food.    I  ate  and  lived. 
I  grew.     Then,  wretched  as  I  was,  I  felt 


£MbKi 

_ 


Strange  stirs  of  manhood  in  my  flesh  and 

bones, 
Dim  yearnings,  fierce  desires,  and  one  pale 

face 
Could  still  them  as  the  white  moon  ch 

the  sea. 

Oh,  but  I  was  a  low  and  unclean  thing, 
And  yet  she  loved  me,  and  I  stretch'd  t 

hands 

To  God,  and  blest  Him  for  His  charity. 
Mark  that :— I  blest  Him,  I.     Even  as 

stood, 
Bright  in  new  manhood,  the  drums  beat, 

a  hand 
Fell  on  my  shoulder,   and,   'in  France' 

name, ' 
A  voice  cried,  '  Follow.'   To  my  heart  they 

held 
Cold  steel : — I  followed  ;  following  saw  her 

face 

Fade  to  a  bitter  cry — hurl'd  on  with  blows, 
Curs'd,  jeer'd  at,  scorn'd,  went  forth  as  in 

a  dream, 

And,  driven  into  the  bloody  flash  of  war, 
Struck  like  a  blinded  beast  I  knew  not  whom 
Blows  for  I  knew  not  what.     The  fierce 

years  came 
Like  ulcers  on  my  heart,  and  heal'd,  and 

went. 

Then  I  crept  back,  a  broken  sickly  man, 
To  seek  her,  and  I  found  her— dead !    She 

had  died, 
Poor  worm,  of  hunger.     She  had  ask'd  for 

bread, 
And  '  France  '  had  given  her  stones.     She 

had  pray'd  to  '  God  '  ; 
He  had  given  her  a  grave.     The  day  she 

died, 
The  bells  rang  for  another  victory. 

SISTERS. 

0  do  not  weep  !    Yet  we  are  weeping  too. 

DESERTER. 

Now  mark,  I  was  too  poor  a  worm  to  grieve 
Too  long  and  deeply.     The  years  passed. 

My  heart 
Heal'd,   and  as   wounds    heal,   harden'd. 

Once  again 

1  join'd  the  wolves  that  up  and  down  the 

earth 

Rush  tearing  at  men's  lives  and  women's 
hearts. 


A    DIALOGUE  IN  THE  SNOW— PRAYER  IN  THE  NIGHT.      343 


That  passed,  and  I  was  free.     One  morn  I 

saw 

Another  woman,  and  I  hunger' d  to  her, 
And  we  were  wedded.     Hard  days  follow'd 

that ; 
And  children — she  was  fruitful — all  your 

worms 
Are  fruitful,  mark — that  is  God's  blessing 

too  ! 

Well,  but  we  throve,  and  farm'd  a  bit  of  land 
Out  yonder  by  the  City.     I  learn'd  to  love 
The  mother  of  my  little  ones.    Time  sped  ; 
And  then  I  heard  a  cry  across  the  fields, 
The  old  cry,  '  Honour,'  the  old  cry,  '  For 

France  ! ' 

And  like  a  wolf  caught  in  his  lair  I  shrunk 
And  shudder'd.     It  grew  louder,  that  curst 

cry! 

Day  follow'd  day,  no  bells  rung  victory, 
But  there  were  funeral  faces  everywhere  ; 
And  then  I  heard  the  far  feet  of  the  foe 
Trampling  the  field  of  France  and  coming 

nearer 
To  that  poor  field  I  sow'd.     I  would  have 

fled, 

But  that  they  thrust  a  weapon  in  mine  hands 
And  bade  me  stand  and  strike  '  for  France.' 

I  laugh'd ! 
But  the  wolves  had  me,  and  we  screaming 

drew 

Into  the  City.     Shall  I  gorge  your  souls 
With  horror  ?    Shall  I  croak  into  your  ears 
What  I  have,  suffer'd  there,  what  I  have 

seen? 

I  was  a  worm,  ever  a  worm,  and  starved 
While  the  plump  coward  cramm'd.     Look 

at  me,  women, 
Fire,  Famine,  and  Frost  have  got  me ;  yet 

I  crawl,. 

And  shall  crawl  on  ;  for  hark  you,  yester- 
night, 

Standing  within  the  City,  sick  at  heart, 
I  gazed  up  eastward,  thinking  of  my  home 
And  of  the  woman  and  children  desolate, 
And  lo  !  out  of  the  darkness  where  I  knew 
Our  hamlet  lay  there  shot  up  flames  and 

cast 

A  bloody  light  along  the  arc  of  heaven  ; 
And  all  my  heart  was  sicken'd  unaware 
With  hunger  such  as  any  wild  thing  feels 
To  crawl  again  in  secret  to  the  place 
Whence  the  fierce  hunter  drove  it,  and  to 

see 


If  its  young  live  ;  and  thither  indeed  I  fare ; 
And  yonder  flame  still  flareth,  and  I  crawl, 
And  I  shall  crawl  unto  it  though  I  die  ; 
And  I  shall  only  smile  if  they  be  dead, 
If  I  may  merely  see  them  once  again, — 
For  come  what  may,  my  cup  of  life  is  full, 
And  I  am  broken  from  all  use  and  will. 

SISTERS. 

Pass  on,   unhappy  one  ;    God  help  thee 
now ! 

DESERTER. 

If  ye  have  any  pity,  give  me  bread. 

SISTERS. 

Lean  on  us  !  Oh  thou  lost  one,  come  this 
way. 


THE  PRAYER  IN  THE  NIGHT. 

STARS  in  heaven  with  gentle  faces, 
Can  ye  see  and  keep  your  places? 
Flowers  that  on  the  old  earth  blossom, 
Can  ye  hang  on  such  a  bosom  ? 
Canst  thou  wander  on  for  ever 
Through  a  world  so  sad,  O  River? 
O  ye  fair  things  'neath  the  sun, 
Can  ye  bear  what  Man  hath  done  ? 

This  is  Earth.     Heaven  glimmers  yonder. 
Pause  a  little  space  and  ponder ! 

Day  by  day  the  fair  world  turneth 
Dewy  eyes  to  heaven  and  yearneth, 
Day  by  day  the  mighty  Mother 
Sees  her  children  smite  each  other . 
She  moans,  she  pleads,  they  do  not  hear 

her— 
She  prays  -  the  skies  seem  gathering  near 

her — 

Yearning  down  diviner,  bluer, 
Baring  every  star  unto  her, — 
Each  strange  light  with  swinging  censer 
Sweeter  seeming  and  intenser, — 
Yet  she  ceaseth  not  her  cry, 
Seeing  how  her  children  die. 

On  her  bosom  they  are  lying, 
Clinging  to  her,  dead  and  dying- 
Dead  eyes  frozen  in  imploring 
Yonder  heaven  they  died  adoring, 


344 


SONGS   OF   THE    TERRIBLE    YEAR. 


Dying  eyes  that  upward  glimmer 
Ever  growing  darker,  dimmer  ; 
And  her  eyes,  too,  thither  turning, 
Asking,  praying,  weeping,  yearning, 
Search  the  blue  abysses,  whither 
He  who  made  her,  brought  her  hither, 
Gave  her  children,  bade  them  grow, 
Vanished  from  her  long  ago. 

Ah,  what  children  !    Father,  see  them  ! 
Never  word  of  hers  may  free  them — 
Never  word  of  love  may  win  them. 
For  there  burneth  fierce  within  them 
Fire  of  thine  ;  soul-sick  and  sinning, 
As  they  were  in  the  beginning, 
Here  they  wander.     Father,  see  ! 
Generations  born  of  Thee  ! 

Blest  was  Earth  when  on  her  bosom 
First  she  saw  the  double  blossom, 
Double  sweetness,  man  and  woman, 
One  in  twain,  divine  and  human, 
Leaping,  laughing,  crying,  clinging, 
To  the  sound  of  her  sweet  singing— 
Flesh  like  lily  and  rose  together, 
Eyes  as  blue  as  April  weather, 
Golden  hair  with  golden  shadows, 
In  the  face  the  light  of  meadows, 
In  the  eyes  the  dim  soul  peeping 
Like  the  sky  in  water  sleeping. 
'  Guard  them  well ! '  the  Father  said, 
Set  them  in  her  arms, — and  fled. 

Countless  worlds  around  Him  yearning, 
Vanish'd  He  from  her  discerning  ; — 
Then  she  drooped  her  fair  face,  seeing 
On  her  breast  each  gentle  being : 
And  unto  her  heart  she  prest  them, 
Raised  her  look  to  heaven  and  blest  them  ; 
And  the  fountains  leapt  around  her, 
Leaves  and  flowers  shot  up  and  crown'd 

her, 

Flowers  bloom'd  and  streams  ran  gleaming. 
Till  with  bliss  she  sank  to  dreaming  ; — 
And  the  darkness  for  a  cover 
Gently  drew  its  veil  above  her, 
And  the  new-born  smiled  reposing, 
And  a  million  eyes  unclosing 
Yearn' d  through  all  the  veil  to  see 
That  new  fruit  of  mystery. 

Father  !  come  from  the  abysses  ; 
Come,  Thou  light  the  Mother  misses  ; 


Come  ;  while  hungry  generations 
Pass  away,  she  sits  in  patience. 
Of  the  children  Thou  didst  leave  her, 
Millions  have  been  born  to  grieve  her. 
See  !  they  gather,  living,  dying, 
Coming,  going,  multiplying  ; 
And  the  Mother,  for  the  Father, 
Though  like  waves  they  rise  and  gather, 
Though  they  blossom  thick  as  grass*«s, 
Misses  every  one  that  passes, 
Flashes  on  them  peace  and  light 
Of  a  love  grown  infinite. 

Father  !  see  them  :  hath  each  creature 
Something  in  him  of  Thy  nature  ? 
Born  of  Thee  and  of  no  other, 
Born  to  Thee  by  a  sweet  Mother, 
Man  strikes  man,  and  brother  brother. 
Hearts  of  men  from  Thy  heart  fashioned 
Bleed  and  anguish  bloody-passion'd  ; 
Beast-like  roar  the  generations  ; 
Tiger-nations  spring  on  nations  ; 
Though  the  stars  yearn  downward  nightly, 
Though  the  days  come  ever  brightly, 
Though  to  gentle  holy  couches 
Death  in  angel's  guise  approaches, 
Though  they  name  Thee,  though  they  woo 

Thee, 

Though  they  dream  of,  yearn  unto  Thee, 
111  they  guess  the  guise  Thou  bearest, 
111  they  picture  Thee,  Thou  Fairest ; — 
Come  again,  O  Father  wise, 
Awe  them  with  those  loving  eyes  ! 

Stars  in  heaven  with  tender  faces, 
Can  ye  see  and  keep  your  places  ? 
Flowers  that  on  the  Earth  will  blossom, 
Can  ye  deck  so  sad  a  bosom  ? 
Canst  thou  singing  flow  for  ever 
Through  a  world  so  dark,  O  Rivar  ? 
Father,  canst  Thou  calmly  scan 
All  that  Man  hath  made  of  Man  ? 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRANCE. 

WHO  passeth  there 

Naked  and  bare, 
A  bloody  sword  upraising? 

Who  with  thin  moan 

Glides  past  alone, 
At  the  black  heaven  gazing  ? 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  FRANCE— APOTHEOSIS  OF  THE  SWORD.     345 


Limbs  thin  and  stark, 

Eyes  sunken  and  dark, 
The  lightning  round  her  leaping? 

What  shape  floats  past 

Upon  the  blast, 
Crouching  in  pain  and  creeping? 

Behold  !  her  eyes  to  heaven  are  cast, 
And  they  are  red  with  weeping. 

Say  a  prayer  thrice 

With  lips  of  ice: 
Tis  she — yea,  and  no  other  ; 

Look  not  at  me 

So  piteously, 
O  France — O  martyr  mother  ! 

O  whither  now, 

With  branded  brow 
And  bleeding  heart,  art  flying  ? 

Whither  away? 

O  stand  !  O  stay  ! 
Tho'  winds,  waves,  clouds  are  crying — 

Dawn  cometh  swift — 'twill  soon  be  day- 
The  Storm  of  God  is  dying. 

She  will  not  speak, 

But,  spent  and  weak, 
Droops  her  proud  head  and  goeth  ; 

See !  she  crawls  past, 

Upon  the  blast, 
Whither  no  mortal  knoweth — 

O'er  fields  of  fight, 

Where  glimmer  white 
Death's  steed  and  its  gaunt  rider — 

Thro'  storm  and  snow 

Behold  her  go, 
With  never  a  friend  beside  her — 

O  Shepherd  of  all  winds  that  blow, 
To  Quiet  Waters  guide  her  ! 

There,  for  a  space, 

Let  her  sad  face 
Fall  in  a  tranquil  mirror — 

There  spirit-sore 

May  she  count  o'er 
Her  sin,  her  shame,  her  error, — 

And  read  with  eyes 

Made  sweet  and  wise 
What  her  strong  God  hath  taught  her, 

With  face  grown  fair 

And  bosom  bare 
And  hands  made  clean  from  slaughter — 

O  Shepherd,  seek  and  find  her  there, 
Beside  some  Quiet  Water  ! 


THE  APOTHEOSIS  OF  THE 
SWORD. 

(Versailles,  1871.) 

PRIEST. 

HARK  to  the  Song  of  the  Sword  ! 
In  the  beginning,  a  Word 
Came  from  the  lips  of  the  Lord  ; 
And  He  said,  '  The  Earth  shall  be, 
And  around  the  Earth  and  Sea, 
And  over  these  twain  the  Skies  ; 
And  out  of  the  Earth  shall  rise 
Man,  the  last  and  the  first ; 
And  Man  shall  hunger  and  thirst, 
And  shall  eat  of  the  fruits  in  the  sun, 
And  drink  of  the  streamlets  that  run, 
And  shall  find  the  wild  yellow  grains, 
And,  opening  earth,  in  its  veins 
Sow  the  seeds  of  the  same  ;  for  of  bread 
I  have  written  that  he  shall  be  fed.' 
Thus  at  the  first  said  the  Lord. 

CHOIR. 

Hark  to  the  Song  of  the  Sword  ! 


Then  Man  sowed  the  grain,  and  to  bread 

Kneaded  the  grain,  and  was  fed, 

He  and  his  household  indeed 

To  the  last  generation  and  seed  : 

Then  the  children  of  men,  young  and  old, 

Sat  by  the  waters  of  gold, 

And  ate  of  the  bread  and  the  fruit, 

And  drank  of  the  stream,  but  made  suit 

For  blessing  no  more  than  the  brute. 

And  God  said,  '  'Twere  better  to  die 

Than  eat  and  drink  merely,  and  lie 

Beast-like  and  foul  on  the  sod, 

Lusting,  forgetful  of  God  ! ' 

And  he  whispered,  '  Dig  deeper  again, 

Under  the  region  of  grain, 

And  bring  forth  the  thing  ye  find  there 

Shapeless  and  dark  ;  and  prepare 

Fire, — and  into  the  same 

Cast  what  ye  find — let  it  flame — 

And  when  it  is  burning  blood-bright, 

Pluck  it  forth,  and  with  hammers  of  might 

Beat  it  out,  beat  it  out,  till  ye  mark 

The  thing  that  was  shapeless  and  dark 

Grown  beautiful,  azure,  and  keen, 

Purged  in  the  fire  and  made  clean. 


346 


SONGS   OF   THE    TERRIBLE    YEAR. 


Beautiful,  holy,  and  bright, 

Gleaming  aloft  in  the  light ; — 

Then  lift  it,  and  wield  ! '  said  the  Lord. 

CHOIR. 

Hark  to  the  Song  of  the  Sword  ! 

PRIEST. 

Then  Man  with  a  brighter  desire 
Saw  the  beautiful  thing  from  the  fire, 
And  the  slothful  arose,  and  the  mean 
Trembled  to  see  it  so  keen, 
And  God,  as  they  gather'd  and  cried, 
Thunder'd  a  World  far  and  wide  : 
'  This  Sword  is  the  Sword  of  the  Strong  ! 
It  shall  strike  at  the  life's  blood  of  wrong  ; 
It  shall  kill  the  unclean,  it  shall  wreak 
My  doom  on  the  shameful  and  weak  ; 
And  the  strong  with  this  sign  in  their  hands 
Shall  gather  their  hosts  in  the  lands, 
And  strike  at  the  mean  and  the  base, 
And  strengthen  from  race  on  to  race  ; 
And  the  weak  shall  be  wither'd  at  length, 
For  the  glory  of  Man  is  his  strength, 
And  the  weak  man  must   die,'  saith   the 
Lord. 

CHOIR. 

Hark  to  the  Song  of  the  Sword  ! 

PRIEST. 

Sire,  whom  all  men  of  thy  race 
Name  as  their  hope  and  their  grace ; 
King  of  the  Rhine-water'd  land. 
Heart  of  the  state  and  its  hand, 
Thou  of  the  purple  and  crown, 
Take,  while  thy  servants  bow  down, 
The  Sword  in  thy  grasp. 


KAISER. 


It  is  done. 


PRIEST. 


Uplift !  let  it  gleam  in  the  sun — 
Uplift  in  the  name  of  the  Lord  ! 

CHOIR. 

Hail  to  the  King  and  the  Sword  ! 

KAISER. 

Lo  !  how  it  gleams  in  the  light, 
Beautiful,  bloody,  and  bright — 
Such  in  the  dark  days  of  yore 
The  monarchs  of  Israel  bore  ; 
Such  by  the  angels  of  heaven 
To  Charles  the  Mighty  was  given — 


Yea,  I  uplift  the  Sword, 

Thus  in  the  name  of  the  Lord  ! 

THE  CHIEFS. 

Form  ye  a  circle  of  fire 
Around  him,  our  King  and  our  Sire — 
While  in  the  centre  he  stands, 
Kneel  with  your  swords  in  your  ha:>is, 
Then  with  one  voice  deep  and  free 
Echo  like  waves  of  the  sea — 
'  In  the  name  of  the  Lord  ! ' 

CHANCELLOR. 

Sire,  while  thou  liftest  the  Sword, 

Thus  in  the  name  of  the  Lord, 

I  too,  thy  slave,  kneel  and  blend 

My  voice  with  the  hosts  that  attend — 

Yea,  and  while  kneeling  I  hold 

A  scroll  writ  in  letters  of  gold, 

With  the  names  of  the  monarchs  who  bow 

Thy  liegemen  throned  lower  than  thou ; 

Moreover,  in  letters  of  red, 

Their  names  who  ere  long  must  be  led 

To  thy  feet,  while  thou  liftest  the  Sword, 

Thus  in  the  name  of  the  Lord. 

VOICES  WITHOUT. 

Where  is  he  ? — he  fades  from  our  sight  ! 
Where  the  Sword?— all  is  blacker  than  night. 
Is  it  finish'd,  that  loudly  ye  cry? 
Doth  he  sheathe  the  great  Sword  while  we 

die? 

O  bury  us  deep,  most  deep  ; 
Write  o'er  us,  wherever  we  sleep, 
'  In  the  name  of  the  Lord  ! ' 

KAISER. 

While  I  uplift  the  Sword, 
Thus  in  the  name  of  the  Lord, 
Why,  with  mine  eyes  full  of  tears, 
Am  I  sick  of  the  song  in  mine  ears  ? 
God  of  the  Israelite,  hear  ; 
God  of  the  Teuton,  be  near  ; 
Strengthen  my  pulse  lest  I  fail, 
Shut  out  these  slain  while  they  wail — 
For  they  come  with  the  voice  of  the  grave 
On  the  glory  they  give  me  and  gave. 

CHORUS. 

In  the  name  of  the  Lord  ?    Of  what  Lord  ? 
Where  is  He,  this  God  of  the  Sword  ? 
Unfold  Him  ;  where  hath  He  his  throne  ? 
Is  he  Lord  of  the  Teuton  alone  ? 


APOTHEOSIS  OF  THE   SWORD -CHAUNT  BY  THE  RHINE,     347 


Doth  He  walk  on  the  earth  ?  Doth  He  tread 
On  the  limbs  of  the  dying  and  dead  ? 
Unfold  Him  !    We  sicken,  and  long 
To  look  on  this  God  of  the  strong  ! 

PRIEST. 

Hush  !     In  the  name  of  the  Lord, 
Kneel  ye,  and  bless  ye  the  Sword ! 
Bless  it  with  soul  and  with  brain, 
Bless  it  for  saved  and  for  slain, 
For  the  sake  of  the  dead  in  the  tomb, 
For  the  sake  of  the  child  in  the  womb, 
For  the  sake  of  these  Kings  on  the  knee, 
For  the  sake  of  a  world  it  shall  free  ! 
Bless  it,  the  Sword  !  bless  the  Sword  ! 
Yea,  in  the  name  of  the  Lord  ! 

CHIEFS. 

Deepen  the  circle  of  Fire 
Around  him,  our  King  and  our  Sire  ! 
While  in  our  centre  he  towers, 
Kneeling,  ye  spirits,  ye  powers, 
Bless  it  and  bless  it  again, 
Bless  it  for  saved  and  for  slain, 
Bless  ye  the  beautiful  Sword, 
Aloud  in  the  name  of  the  Lord  ! 

KAISER. 

In  the  name  of  the  Lord  ! 

ALL. 

In  the  name  of  the  Lord  ! 


THE 


CHAUNT  BY 

RHINE. 

(1871.) 


THE 


Te  verb  appello  sanctissimum  FLUMEN, 
tibique  futura  prsedico  :  torrenti  sanguine  plenus 
ad  ripas  usque  erumpes,  undaeque  divinse  non 
solum  polluentur  sanguine,  sed  totse  rumpentur, 
et  viris  multo  major  erit  numerus  sepultorum. 
Quid  fles,  O  Asclepi  ?— THE  ASCLEPIAN  DIA- 
LOGUE. 

FIRST  VOICE. 
(From  Germany.) 

Flash  the  sword  ! — and  even  as  thunder 

Utter  ye  one  living  voice, — 
While  the  watching  nations  wonder, 

Hills  of  Fatherland,  rejoice  : 
Echo  ! — echo  back  our  prayers  and  accla- 
mations ! 


SECOND  VOICE. 
(From  France.) 

France,  O  Mother  !  lie  and  hearken, 

Make  no  bitterer  sign  of  woe, 
Here  within  thee  all  things  darken, 
All  things  brighten  with  thy  foe  : 
Hush  thy  weeping ;  still  thy  bitter  lamen- 
tations. 

FIRST  VOICE. 

Flash  the  sword  ! — A  voice  is  flowing 

From  the  Baltic  bound  in  white, 
Though  'tis  blowing  chill  and  snowing, 

Blue-eyed  Teutons  see  the  light. 
And  the  far  white  hills  of  Norway  hear  the 
crying. 

SECOND  VOICE. 

Thou  too  hearkenest,  Mother  dearest, 

Thou  too  hearkenest  through  thy  tears, 
And  thou  tremblest  as  thou  hearest, 

For  'tis  thunder  in  thine  ears  ; 
And  thou  gazest  on  the  dead  and  on  the 
dying. 

FIRST  VOICE. 

Liibeck  answers  and  rejoices, 

Though  her  dead  are  brought  to  her  ; 
Potsdam  thunders  ;  there  are  voices 

In  the  fields  of  Hanover  ; 
And  the  spirits  of  the  lonely  Hartz  awaken. 

SECOND  VOICE. 

And  in  France's  vales  and  mountains 

Hands  are  wrung  and  tears  are  shed  ; 
Women  sit  by  village  fountains, 

And  the  water  bubbles  red. 
O  comfort,  O  be  of  comfort— ye  forsaken ! 

FIRST  VOICE. 

O'er  Bavarian  woods  and  rivers, 

Where  the  Brunswick  heather  waves, 
On  the  glory  goes  and  quivers 

Through  the  Erzgebirge  caves  ; 
And  the  swords  of  Styria  gleam  like  moonlit 
water. 

SECOND  VOICE. 

There  is  silence,  there  is  weeping, 

On  the  bloody  banks  of  Seine, 
And  the  unburied  dead  are  sleeping 

In  the  fields  of  trampled  grain  ; 
While  the  roadside  Christs  stare  down  on 
fields  of  slaughter. 


343 


SONGS   OF   THE    TERRIBLE    YEAR. 


FIRST  VOICE. 

Flash  the  sword  !    Where  need  is  sorest, 

Sitting  in  the  lonely  night, 
While  the  wind  in  the  Black  Forest 

Moans,  the  woodman  sees  the  light  ; 
And  the  hunters  wind  the  horn  and  hail 
each  other. 

SECOND  VOICE. 

Strasbourg  sits  among  her  ashes 

With  a  last  despairing  cry  ; 
East  and  west  red  ruin  flashes 
With  a  red  light  on  the  sky. 
Not  a  word !     Sit  yet  and  hearken,  O  my 
Mother ! 

FIRST  VOICE. 

Flash  the  sword  !    The  glades  of  Baden 

Echo  ;  Jena  laughs  anon  ; 
Dresden  old  and  Stuttgart  gladden, 

There  is  mirth  in  Ratisbon  : — 
And  underneath  the  Linden  there  is  leaping. 

SECOND  VOICE. 
In  thine  arms  the  horror  tarries, 

And  the  sword-flash  gleams  on  thee, 
Hide  thy  funeral  face,  O  Paris, 
Do  not  hearken  ;  do  not  see  ; 
Electra,   clasp  thine  urn,   and    hush    thy 
weeping. 

FIRST  VOICE. 

Hamburg  kindles,  and  her  women 

Sadly  smile  remembering  all ; 
There  are  bitter  smiles  in  Bremen, 

Where  Vandamme's  fierce  feet  did  fall ; 
But  the  Katzbach,  O  the  Katzbach  laugheth 
loudly  ! 

SECOND  VOICE. 

Comfort,  Mother !  hear  not,  heed  not ; 

Let  the  dead  bury  the  dead  ! 
Fold  thy  powerless  hands  and  plead  not, 

They  remember  sorrows  fled, 
And  their  dead  go  by  them,  silently  and 
proudly. 

FIRST  VOICE. 

O  that  Fritz's  soul  could  hear  it 

In  the  walks  of  Sans  Souci ! 
O  to  waken  Liitzow's  spirit, 

Bliicher's  too,  the  grim  and  free  ; 
And  the  Jager,  the  wild  Jager,  would  they 
listen'd ! 


SECOND  VOICE. 

Comfort,  Mother  !    O  cease  weeping  ! 

Let  the  past  bury  the  past : 
Faces  of  the  slain  and  sleeping 
Gleam  along  upon  the  blast. 
Yea,  'twas  '  Leipsic'  that  they  murmur'd  as 
they  glisten'd. 

FIRST  VOICE. 

All  the  land  of  the  great  River 

Slowly  brightens  near  and  far  ; 
Lost  for  once,  and  saved  for  ever, 

Korner's  spirit  like  a  star 
Shooteth    past,    and    all    remember    the 
beginning. 

SECOND  VOICE. 

They  are  rising,  they  are  winging, 

Spirits  of  her  singers  dead  : 
'Tis  an  old  song  they  are  singing, 

Fold  thy  hands  and  bow  thy  head, 
But  they  sing  for  thee  too,  gentle  to  thy 
sinning. 

FIRST  VOICE. 

And  the  River  to  the  ocean 

Rolls  ;  and  all  its  castles  dim 
Gleam  ;  and  with  a  shadowy  motion, 

Like  a  mist  upon  its  brim, 
Rise  the  Dead, — and  look  this  way  with 
shining  faces. 

SECOND  VOICE. 

Thine,  too,  rise  ! — and  darkly  cluster, 

Moaning  sad  around  thee  now, 
In  their  eyes  there  is  no  lustre, 

They  are  cold  as  thy  cold  brow— 
Let  them  vanish  ;  let  them  sleep  in  their 
dark  places. 

FIRST  VOICE. 

Flash  the  sword  !     In  the  fair  valleys 

Where  the  scented  Neckar  flows, 
Fair-hair' d  Teutons  lift  the  chalice, 
And  the  winter  vineyard  grows, 
And  the  almond  forests  tremble  into  blos- 
som. 

SECOND  VOICE. 

On  thy  vineyards  the  cold  daylight 

Gleams,  and  they  are  deadly  chill  ; 
Women  wander  in  the  grey  light, 

And  the  lean  trees  whistle  shrill ; 
Hold  thine  urn,  O  martyr  Mother,  to  thy 
bosom. 


THE   CHAUNT  BY  THE  RHINE. 


349 


FIRST  VOICE. 

Flash  the  sword  !   Sweet  notes  of  pleasure 

O'er  the  Rhenish  upland  swell, 
And  the  overhanging  azure 
Sees  itself  in  the  Moselle. 
All  the  land  of  the  great  River  gleams  and 
hearkens ! 

SECOND  VOICE. 

Dost  thou  hear  them?  dost  thou  see  them? 

There  'tis  gladness,  here  'tis  pain  ; 
One  great  Spirit  comes  to  free  them, 

But  he  holds  thee  with  a  chain. 
All  the  land  of  the  great  City  weeps  and 
darkens ! 

FIRST  VOICE. 

River  of  the  mighty  people, 
Broaden  to  the  sea  and  flow, 

Mirror  tilth  and  farm  and  steeple, 

Darken  with  boats  that  come  and  go. 
Smile  gently,  like  a  babe  that  smiles  and 
prattles. 

SECOND  VOICE. 

Yea  !  and  though  thou  flow  for  ever, 

Bright  and  bloodless  as  to-day, 
Scarcely  wilt  thou  wash,  O  River, 

Thy  dark  load  of  dead  away, 
O  bloody  River  1    O  field  of  many  battles  ! 


FIRST  VOICE. 

On  with  great  immortal  waters 
Brightening  to  a  day  divine, 
Through  the  fields  of  many  slaughters 

Freely  roll,  O  German  Rhine. 
Let  the  Teuton  drink  thy  wine  and  wax  the 
stronger. 

SECOND   VOICE. 

On  and  on,  O  mighty  River, 

Flow  through  lands  of  corn  and  vine — 
Turn  away,  O  France,  for  ever, 

Look  no  more  upon  the  Rhine  ; 
On  the  River  of  many  sorrows  look  no 
longer. 

FIRST  VOICE. 

Lo !  the  white  Alps  for  a  token 
With  the  wild  aurora  gleam, 

And  the  Spectre  of  the  Brocken 

Stands  aloft  with  locks  that  stream, — 
All  the  land  of  the  great  River  can  behold  it ! 

SECOND   VOICE. 

Hide  thine  eyes  and  look  not  thither ! 

For,  in  answer  to  their  cries, 
Fierce  the  Phantasm  gazeth  hither 

With  an  Avenging  Angel's  eyes  ; 
It  is  fading,  and  the  mists  of  storm  enfold  it ! 


Saint  Abe  and  his  Seven  Wives, 

A   TALE   OF   SALT   LAKE   CITY. 


DEDICATION:    TO   OLD  DAN 
CHAUCER. 

Maypole  dance  and  Whitsun  ale, 
Sports  of  peasants  in  the  dale, 
Harvest  mirth  and  junketting, 
Fireside  play  and  kiss-in-ring, 
Ancient  fun  and  wit  and  ease, — 
Gone  are  one  and  all  of  these ; 
All  the  pleasant  pastime  planned 
In  the  green  old  Mother-land  : 
Gone  are  these  and  gone  the  time 
Of  the  breezy  English  rhyme, 
Sung  to  make  men  glad  and  wise 
By  great  Bards  with  twinkling  eyes : 


Gone  the  tale  and  gone  the  song 
Sound  as  nut-brown  ale  and  strong, 
Freshening  the  sultry  sense 
Out  of  idle  impotence, 
Sowing  features  dull  or  bright 
With  deep  dimples  of  delight ! 

Thro'  the  Mother-land  I  went, 
Seeking  these,  half  indolent : 
Up  anti  down,  I  saw  them  not ; 
Only  found  them,  half-forgot, 
Buried  in  long-darken'd  nooks 
With  thy  barrels  of  old  books, 
Where  the  light  and  love  and  mirth 
Of  the  morning  days  of  earth 


350 


SAINT  ABE  AND  HIS  SEVEN   WIVES. 


Sleeps,  like  light  of  sunken  suns 
Brooding  deep  in  cob-webb'd  tuns  ! 
Everywhere  I  found  instead, 
Hanging  her  dejected  head, 
Barbing  shafts  of  bitter  wit, 
The  pale  Modern  Spirit  sit — 
While  her  shadow,  great  as  Gog's, 
Cast  upon  the  island  fogs, 
In  the  midst  of  all  things  dim 
Loom'd,  gigantically  grim. 

Honest  Chaucer,  thee  I  greet 
In  a  verse  with  blithesome  feet, 
And,  tho'  modern  bards  may  stare, 
Crack  a  passing  joke  with  Care  ! 
Take  a  merry  song  and  true 
Fraught  with  inner  meanings  too  ! 
Goodman  Dull  may  croak  and  scowl 
Leave  him  hooting  to  the  owl ! 
Tight-laced  Prudery  may  turn 
Angry  back  with  eyes  that  burn, 
Reading  on  from  page  to  page 
Scrofulous  novels  of  the  age  ! 
Fools  may  frown  and  humbugs  rail, 
Not  for  them  I  tell  the  Tale  ; 
Not  for  them,  but  souls  like  thee, 
Wise  old  English  JOLLITY  ! 
Newport,  October,  1871. 


;<  APPRO  A  CHING    UTAH.  —  THE 
BOSS'S    TALE. 


PASSING  THE  RANCHE. 

'  GRRR  !  "    shrieked  the  boss,  with  teeth 

clench'd  tight, 

Just  as  the  lone  ranche  hove  in  sight, 
And  with  a  face  of  ghastly  hue 
He  flogg'd  the  horses  till  they  flew, 
As  if  the  devil  were  at  their  back, 
Along  the  wild  and  stony  track. 
From  side  to  side  the  waggon  swung, 
While  to  the  quaking  seat  I  clung. 
Dogs  bark'd  ;  on  each  side  of  the  pass 
The  cattle  grazing  on  the  grass 
Raised  heads  and  stared  ;  and  with  a  cry 
Out  the  men  rush'd  as  we  roll'd  by. 
'Grrr!'  shriek'd  the  boss ;  and  o'er  and  o'er 
He  flogg'd  the  foaming  steeds  and  swore  ; 
Harder  and  harder  grew  his  face 
As  by  the  ranche  we  swept  apace, 
And  faced  the  hill,  and  past  the  pond, 
And  gallop1  d  up  the  height  beyond, 
Nor  tighten'd  rein  till  field  and  farm 
Were  hidden  by  the  mountain's  arm 


A  mile  behind  ;  when,  hot  and  spent, 
The  horses  paused  on  the  ascent, 
And  mopping  from  his  brow  the  sweat, 
The  boy  glanced  round  with  teeth  still  set 
And  panting,  with  his  eyes  on  me, 
Smil'd  with  a  look  of  savage  glee. 

Joe  Wilson  is  the  boss's  name, 
A  Western  boy  well  known  to  fame. 
He  goes  about  the  dangerous  land 
His  life  for  ever  in  his  hand  ; 
Has  lost  three  fingers  in  a  fray, 
Has  scalp' d  his  Indian  too  they  say  ; 
Between  the  white  man  and  the  red 
Four  times  he  hath  been  left  for  dead  ; 
Can  drink,  and  swear,  and  laugh,  and  br.a\ 
And  keeps  his  big  heart  thro'  it  all 
Tender  for  babes  and  women. 

He 

Turned,  smiled,  and  nodded  savagely 
Then,  with  a  dark  look  in  his  eyes 
In  answer  to  my  dumb  surprise, 
Pointed  with  jerk  of  the  whip's  heft 
Back  to  the  place  that  we  had  left, 
And  cried  aloud, 

'  I  guess  you  think 
I'm  mad,  or  vicious,  or  in  drink. 
But  theer  you're  wrong.     I  never  pass 
The  ranche  down  theer  and  bit  of  grass, 
I  never  pass  "em,  night  nor  day, 
But  the  fit  takes  me  just  that  way  1 
The  bosses  know  as  well  as  me 
What's  coming,  miles  afore  we  see 
The  dern'd  old  corner  of  a  place, 
And  they  git  ready  for  the  race  ! 
Lord  !  if  I  didn't  lash  and  sweer, 
And  ease  my  rage  out  passing  theer, 
Guess  I  should  go  clean  mad,  that's  all. 
And  thet's  the  reason  why  I  call 
This  turn  of  road  where  I  am  took 
Jest  Old  Nick's  Gallop  ! ' 

Then  his  look 

Grew  more  subdued  yet  darker  still ; 
And  as  the  horses  up  the  hill 
With  loosen'd  rein  toil'd  slowly,  he 
Went  on  in  half  soliloquy, 
Indifferent  almost  if  I  heard, 
And  grimly  grinding  out  each  word. 

II. 

JOE  WILSON  GOES  A-COURTING. 
'  There  was  a  time,  and  no  mistake, 
When  thet  same  ranche  down  in  the  brake 


THE  BOSS'S   TALE. 


351 


Was  pleasanter  a  heap  to  me 

Than  any  sight  on  land  or  sea. 

The  bosses  knew  it  like  their  master, 

Smelt  it  miles  orf,  and  spank'd  the  faster  ! 

Ay,  bent  to  reach  thet  very  spot, 

Flew  till  they  halted  steaming  hot 

Sharp  opposite  the  door,  among 

The  chicks  and  children  old  and  young  ; 

And  down  I'd  jump,  and  all  the  go 

Was    '  Fortune,    boss  ! '    and   '  Welcome, 

Joe!' 

And  Cissy  with  her  shining  face, 
Tho'  she  was  missus  of  the  place, 
Stood  larfing,  hands  upon  her  hips  ; 
And  when  upon  her  rosy  lips 
I  put  my  mouth  and  gave  her  one, 
She'd  cuff  me,  and  enjy  the  fun  ! 
She  was  a  widow  young  and  tight, 
Her  chap  had  died  in  a  free  fight, 
And  here  she  lived,  and  round  her  had 
Two  chicks,  three  brothers,  and  her  dad, 
All  making  money  fast  as  hay, 
And  doing  better  every  day. 
Waal !  guess  tho'  I  was  peart  and  swift, 
Spooning  was  never  much  my  gift  ; 
But  Cissy  was  a  gal  so  sweet, 
So  fresh,  so  spicy,  and  so  neat, 
It  put  your  wits  all  out  o'  place, 
Only  to  star'  into  her  face. 
Skin  whiter  than  a  new-laid  egg, 
Lips  full  of  juice,  and  sech  a  leg  ! 
A  smell  about  her,  morn  and  e'en, 
Like  fresh-bleach' d  linen  on  a  green  ; 
And  from  her  hand  when  she  took  mine, 
The  warmth  ran  up  like  sherry  wine  ; 
And  if  in  liquor  I  made  free 
To  pull  her  larfing  on  my  knee, 
Why,  there  she'd  sit,  and  feel  so  nice, 
Her  heer  all  scent,  her  breath  all  spice  ! 
See  !  women  hate,  both  young  and  old, 
A  chap  that's  over  shy  and  cold, 
And  fire  of  all  sorts  kitches  quick, 
And  Cissy  seem'd  to  feel  full  slick 
The  same  fond  feelings,  and  at  last 
Grew  kinder  every  time  I  passed  ; 
And  all  her  face,  from  eyes  to  chin, 
Said  '  Bravo,  Joe  !     You're  safe  to  win  ! ' 
And  tho'  we  didn't  fix,  d'ye  see, 
In  downright  words  that  it  should  be, 
Ciss  and  her  fam'ly  understood 
That  she  and  me  would  jine  for  good. 
Guess  I  was  like  a  thirsty  boss 
Dead  beat  for  days,  who  comes  across 


A  fresh  clear  beck,  and  on  the  brink 

Scoops  out  his  shaky  hand  to  drink  ; 

Or  like  a  gal  or  boy  of  three, 

With  eyes  upon  a  pippin-tree  ; 

Or  like  some  Injin  cuss  who  sees 

A  bottle  of  rum  among  the  trees, 

And  by  the  bit  of  smouldering  log, 

Where  squatters  camp'd  and  took  their  grog 

The  night  afore.     Waal ! '  (here  he  ground 

His  teeth  again  with  savage  sound) 

1  Waal,  stranger,  fancy,  jest  for  fun, 

The  feelings  of  the  thirsty  one, 

If,  jest  as  he  scoop'd  out  his  hand, 

The  water  turn'd  to  dust  and  sand  ! 

Or  fancy  how  the  lad  would  scream 

To  see  thet  fruit-tree  jest  a  dream  ! 

Or  guess  how  thet  poor  Injin  cuss, 

Would  dance  and  swear,  and  screech  and 

fuss, 

If  when  he'd  drawn  the  cork  and  tried 
To  get  a  gulp  of  rum  inside, 
'Twarn't  anything  in  thet  theer  style, 
But  physic  stuff  or  stinking  ile  ! 
Ah  !  you've  a  notion  now,  I  guess, 
Of  how  all  ended  in  a  mess, 
And  how  when  I  was  putting  in 
My  biggest  card  and  thought  to  win, 
The  Old  One  taught  her  how  to  cheat, 
And  yer  I  found  myself,  clean  beat ! ' 

ill. 

SAINT  AND  DISCIPLE. 

Joe  Wilson  paused,    and  gazed   straight 

down. 

With  gritting  teeth  and  bitter  frown, 
And  not  till  I  entreated  him 
Did  he  continue, — fierce  and  grim, 
With  knitted  brow  and  teeth  clench'd  tight. 

'  Along  this  way  one  summer  night, 
Jest  as  I  meant  to  take  the  prize, 
Passed  an  APOSTLE — dern  his  eyes  ! — 
On  his  old  pony,  gravel-eyed, 
His  legs  a-dangling  down  each  side, 
With  twinkling  eyes  and  wheedling  smile, 
Grinning  beneath  his  broad-brimm'd  tile, 
With  heer  all  scent  and  shaven  face, 
He  came  a- trotting  to  the  place. 
My  luck  was  bad,  I  wasn't  near, 
But  busy  many  a  mile  from  yer  ; 
And  what  I  tell  was  told  to  me 
By  them  as  were  at  hand  to  see. 


352 


SAINT  ABE  AND  HIS  SEVEN   WIVES. 


'Twarn't  every  day,  I  reckon,  they 

Saw  an  Apostle  pass  their  way  ! 

And  Cissy,  being  kind  o'  soft, 

And  empty  in  the  upper  loft, 

Was  full  of  downright  joy  and  pride 

To  hev  thet  saint  at  her  fireside — 

One  of  the  seventy  they  call 

The  holiest  holy— dern  'em  all ! 

O  he  was  'cute  and  no  mistake, 

Deep  as  Salt  Lake,  and  wide  awake  ! 

Theer  at  the  ranche  three  days  he  stayed, 

And  well  he  knew  his  lying  trade. 

'Twarn't  long  afore  he  heard  full  free 

About  her  larks  and  thet  with  me, 

And  how  'twas  quite  the  fam'ly  plan 

To  hev  me  for  her  second  man. 

At  fust  thet  old  Apostle  said 

Little,  but  only  shook  his  head ; 

But  you  may  bet  he'd  no  intent 

To  let  things  go  as  things  had  went. 

Three  nights  he  stayed,  and  every  night 

He  squeezed  her  hand  a  bit  more  tight ; 

And  every  night  he  didn't  miss 

To  give  a  loving  kiss  to  Ciss  ; 

And  tho*  his  fust  was  on  her  brow, 

He  ended  with  her  mouth,  somehow. 

O,  but  he  was  a  knowing  one, 

The  Apostle  Hiram  Higginson  ! 

Grey  as  a  badger's  was  his  heer, 

His  age  was  over  sixty  year 

(Her  grandfather  was  little  older), 

So   short,   his   head    just   touch'd   her 

shoulder ; 

His  face  all  grease,  his  voice  all  puff, 
His  eyes  two  currants  stuck  in  duff: — 
Call  thet  a  man  ! — then  look  at  me  \ 
Thretty  year  old  and  six  foot  three, 
Afear'd  o'  nothing  morn  nor  night, 
The  man  don't  walk  I  wouldn't  fight ! 
Women  is  women  !    Thet's  their  style- 
Talk  reason,  to  them  and  they'll  bile  ; 
But  baste  'em  soft  as  any  pigeon, 
With  lies  and  rubbish  and  religion  ; 
Don't  talk  of  flesh  and  blood  and  feeling, 
But  Holy  Ghost  and  blessed  healing  ; 
Don't  name  things  in  too  plain  a  way, 
Look  a  heap  warmer  than  you  say, 
Make  'em  believe  they're  serving  true 
The  Holy  Spirit  and  not  you, 
Prove  all  the  world  but  you's  damnation, 
And  call  your  kisses  jest  salvation  ; 
Do  this,  and  prcss  'em  on  the  sly, 
You're  safe  to  win  'em.    Jest  you  try  1 


'  Fust  thing  I  heerd  of  all  this  game, 
One  night  when  to  the  ranche  I  came, 
Jump'd  down,  ran  in,  saw  Cissy  theer, 
And  thought  her  kind  o'  cool  and  queer  ; 
For  when  I  caught  her  with  a  kiss, 
'Twarn't  that  she  took  the  thing  amiss, 
But  kept  stone  cool  and  gev  a  sigh, 
And  wiped  her  mouth  upon  the  sly 
On  her  white  milkin* -apron.     "  Waal," 
Says  I,  "you're  out  o'  sorts,  my  gel !  " 
And  with  a  squeamish  smile  for  me, 
Like  folks  hev  when  they're  sick  at  sea, 
Says  she,  "  O,  Joseph,  ere  too  late, 
I  am  awaken' d  to  my  state — 
How  pleasant  and  how  sweet  it  is 
To  be  in  sech  a  state  of  bliss  ! " 
I  stared  and  gaped,  and  turned  to  Jim 
Her  brother,  and  cried  out  to  him, 
"  Hullo,  mate,  what's  the  matter  here  ? 
What's  come  to  Cissy  ?     Is  she  queer!  " 
Jim  gev  a  grin  and  answered,  "  Yes, 
A  trifle  out  o'  sorts,  I  guess." 
But  Cissy  here  spoke  up  and  said, 
"  It  ain't  my  stomach,  nor  my  head, 
It  ain't  my  flesh,  it  ain't  my  skin, 
It's  holy  spirits  here  within  ! ' ' 
"Waal,"  says  I,  meanin'  to  be  kind, 
"  I  must  be  off,  for  I'm  behind  ; 
But  next  time  that  I  pass  this  way 
We'll  fix  ourselves  without  delay. 
I  know  what  your  complaint  is,  Ciss, 
I've  seen  the  same  in  many  a  miss, 
Keep  up  your  spirits,  thet's  your  plan, 
You're  lonely  here  without  a  man, 
And  you  shall  hev  as  good  a  one 
As  e'er  druv  hoss  beneath  the  sun  ! " 
At  that  I  buss'd  her  with  a  smack, 
Turn'd  out,  jump'd  up,  and  took  the  track, 
And  larfing  druv  along  the  pass. 

1  Theer  !    Guess  I  was  as  green  as  grass  ! ' 


IV. 

THE  BOOK  OF  MORMON. 

'  'Twas  jest  a  week  after  thet  day 
When  down  I  druv  again  this  way. 
My  heart  was  light  ;  and  'neath  the  box 
I'd  got  a  shawl  and  two  fine  frocks 
For  Cissy.     On  in  spanking  style 
The  bosses  went  mile  arter  mile  ; 
The  sun  was  blazing  golden  bright, 
The  sunflowers  burning  in  the  light, 


THE  BOSS'S   TALE. 


353 


The  cattle  in  the  golden  gleer 
Wading  for  coolness  everywheer 
Among  the  shinin'  ponds,  with  flies 
As  thick  as  pepper  round  their  eyes 
And  on  their  heads.     See  !  as  I  went 
Whistling  like  mad  and  waal  content, 
Altho'  'twas  broad  bright  day  all  round, 
1     A  cock  crow'd,  and  I  thought  the  sound 
Seem'd  pleasant.   Twice  or  thrice  he  crow'd, 
And  then  up  to  the  ranche  I  rode. 
Since  then  I've  often  heerd  folk  say 
When  a  cock  crows  in  open  day 
;     It's  a  bad  sign,  announcin'  clear 
!     Black  luck  or  death  to  those  thet  hear. 

I     '  When  I  drew  up,  all  things  were  still. 
I  saw  the  boys  far  up  the  hill 
Tos  in'  the  hay  ;  but  at  the  door 

\    No  Cissy  stood  as  oft  afore. 

No,  not  a  soul  there,  left  nor  right, 

Her  very  chicks  were  out  o'  sight. 

So  down  I  jump'd,  and  "  Ciss  !  "  I  cried, 

But  not  a  sign  of  her  outside. 

With  thet  into  the  house  I  ran, 

But  found  no  sight  of  gel  or  man — 

All  empty.    Thinks  I,  "  This  is  queer  !  " — 

Look'd  in  the  dairy— no  one  theer  ; 

Then  loiter'd  round  the  kitchen  track 

Into  the  orchard  at  the  back : 

Under  the  fruit-trees'  shade  I  pass'd,  .  .  . 

Thro'  the  green  bushes,  .  .  .  and  at  last 

Found,  as  the  furthest  path  I  trode, 

The  gel  I  wanted.     Ye  ...  s  !  by ! 

'•     '  The  gel  I  wanted— ay,  I  found 

•  More  than  I  wanted,  you'll  be  bound  ! 
Theer,  seated  on  a  wooden  cheer, 
With  bows  and  ribbons  in  her  heer, 
Her  hat  a-swinging  on  a  twig 

Close  by,  sat  Ciss  in  her  best  rig, 
And  at  her  feet  that  knowing  one, 
The  Apostle  Hiram  Higginson  ! 

*  They  were  too  keen  to  notice  me, 
So  I  held  back  behind  a  tree 

And  watch'd  'em.     Never  night  nor  day 
Did  I  see  Cissy  look  so  gay, 
Her  eyes  all  sparkling  blue  and  bright, 
t    Her  face  all  sanctified  delight. 

She  hed  her  gown  tuck'd  up  to  show 

Embrider'd  petticoat  below, 

And  jest  a  glimpse,  below  the  white, 

Of  dainty  leg  in  stocking  tight 

With  crimson  clocks  ;  and  on  her  knee 

She  held  an  open  book,  which  he, 


Thet  dern'd  Apostle  at  her  feet, 
With  her  low  milking-stool  for  seat 
Was  reading  out  all  clear  and  pat 
K  eeping  the  place  with  finger  fat  ; 
Creeping  more  close  to  book  and  latter 
To  feel  the  warmth  of  his  text  better 
His  crimson  face  like  a  cock's  hea«-l 
With  his  emotion  as  he  read, 
And  now  and  then  his  eyes  he'd  close 
Jest  like  a  cock  does  when  he  crov  s 
Above  the  heads  of  thet  strange  two 
The  shade  was  deep,  the  sky  was  blue, 
The  place  was  full  of  warmth  and  smell. 
All  round  the  fruit  and  fruit-leaves  fell, 
And  that  Saint's  voice,  when  all  was  still, 
Was  like  the  groanin'  of  a  mill. 

'  At  last  he  stops  for  lack  of  wind, 
And  smiled  with  sarcy  double-chinn'd 
Fat  face  at  Cissy,  while  she  cried, 
Rocking  herself  from  side  to  side, 
"  O  Bishop,  them  are  words  of  bliss  !  " 
And  then  he  gev  a  long  fat  kiss 
On  her  warm  hand,  and  edged  his  stool 
Still  closer.     Could  a  man  keep  cool 
And  see  it  ?    Trembling  thro'  and  thro' 
I  walked  right  up  to  thet  theer  two, 
And  caught  the  dern'd  old  lump  of  duff 
Jest  by  the  breeches  and  the  scruff, 
And  chuck'd  him  off,  and  with  one  kick 
Sent  his  stool  arter  him  right  slick — 
While  Cissy  scream'd  with  frighten'd  face, 
' '  Spare  him  !  O  spare  that  man  of  grace  ! 

' ' '  Spare  him  !  "  I  cried,  and  gev  a  shout, 
"  What's  this  yer  shine  you  air  about — 
What  cuss  is  this  that  I  jest  see 
With  that  big  book  upon  your  knee, 
Cuddling  up  close  and  making  sham 
To  read  a  heap  of  holy  flam  ?  " 
Then  Cissy  clasp'd  her  hands,  and  said, 
While  that  dern'd  Saint  sat  fierce  and  red, 
Mopping  his  brow  with  a  black  frown, 
And  squatting  where  I  chuck'd  him  down, 
"Joe  Wilson,  stay  your  hand  so  bold, 
Come  not  a  wolf  into  the  fold  ; 
Forbear  to  touch  that  holy  one — 
The  Apostle  Hiram  Higginson." 
"Touch  him  !  "  said  I ;  "for  half  a  pin 
I'd  flay  and  quarter  him  and  skin  ! 
Waal  may  he  look  so  white  and  skeer'd, 
For  of  his  doings  I  have  heerd  ; 
Five  wives  he  hev  already  done, 
And  him — not  half  the  man  for  one  !  " 

AA 


354 


SAINT  ABE  AND   HIS  SEVEN   WIVES. 


'  And  then  I  stoop' d  and  took  a  peep 

At  what  they'd  studied  at  so  deep, 

And  read,  for  I  can  read  a  bit, 

"  The  Book  of  Mormon  " — what  was  writ 

By  the  first  Saint  of  all  the  lot, 

Mad  Joseph,  him  the  Yankees  shot. 

"  What's  the  contents  of  this  yer  book?" 

Says  I,  and  fixed  her  with  a  look. 

"  O  Joe,"  she  answered,  "  read  aright, 

It  is  a  book  of  blessed  light — 

Thet  holy  man  expounds  it  clear  ; 

Edification  great  is  theer  ! " 

Then,  for  my  blood  was  up,  I  took 

One  kick  at  thet  infernal  book, 

And  tho'  the  Apostle  guv  a  cry, 

Into  the  well  I  made  it  fly, 

And  turning  to  the  Apostle  cried, 

"Tho*  thet  theer  Scriptur'  is  your  guide, 

You'd  best  depart  without  delay, 

Afore  you  sink  in  the  same  way  ! 

And  sure  as  fate  you'll  wet  your  skin 

If  you  come  courting  yer  agin  !  " 

1  At  first  he  stared  and  puff" d  and  blew, — 
"Git  out !  "  I  cried,  and  off  he  flew, 
And  not  till  he  was  out  o'  reach 
Shook  his  fat  fist  and  found  his  speech. 
I  turned  to  Cissy.     "  Cicely  Dunn," 
Ses  I,  "is  this  a  bit  of  fun 
Or  eernest?  "     Reckon  'twas  a  sight 
To  see  the  way  she  stood  upright, 
Rolled  her  blue  eyes  up,  tried  to  speak, 
Made  fust  a  giggle,  then  a  squeak, 
And  said  half  crying,  "  I  despise 
Your  wicked  calumnies  and  lies, 
And  what  you  would  insinuate 
Won't  move  me  from  my  blessed  state. 
Now  I  perceive  in  time,  thank  hiven, 
You  are  a  man  to  anger  given, 
Jealous  and  vi'lent.     Go  away  ! 
And  when  you  recollect  this  day, 
And  those  bad  words  you've  said  to  me, 
Blush  if  you  kin.     Tehee  !  tehee  !  " 
And  then  she  sobbed,  and  in  her  cheer 
Fell  crying  :  so  I  felt  quite  queer, 
And  stood  like  a  dern'd  fool,  and  star'd 
Watchin'  the  pump  a-going  hard  ; 
And  then  at  last,  I  couldn't  stand 
The  sight  no  more,  but  slipt  my  hand 
Sharp  into  hers,  and  said  quite  kind, 
"  Say  no  more,  Cissy — never  mind  ; 
I  know  how  queer  you  women's  ways  is — 
Let  the  Apostle  go  to  blazes  1 " 


With  this 


Now  thet  was  plain  and  fair. 
I  would  have  put  my  arm  round  Ciss. 
But  Lord  !  you  should  have  seen  her  face, 
When  I  attempted  to  embrace  ; 
Sprang  to  her  feet  and  gev  a  cry, 
Her  back  up  like  a  cat's,  her  eye 
All  blazing,  and  cried  fierce  and  clear, 
"  You  villain,  touch  me  if  you  deer  ! " 
And  jest  then  in  the  distance,  fur 
From  danger,  a  voice  echoed  her, — 
The  dern'd  Apostle's,  from  some  place 
Where  he  had  hid  his  ugly  face, — 
Crying  out  faint  and  thick  and  clear, 
"  Yes,  villain,  touch  her  if  you  deer  ! " 

'  So  riled  I  was,  to  be  so  beat, 
I  could  have  struck  her  to  my  feet 
I  didn't  tho',  tho'  sore  beset — 
I  never  struck  a  woman  yet. 

'  But  off  I  walked  right  up  the  pass, 
And  found  the  men  among  the  grass, 
And  when  I  came  in  sight  said  flat, 
"  What's  this  yer  game  Cissy  is  at  ? 
She's  thrown  me  off,  and  taken  pity 
On  an  Apostle  from  the  City. 
Five  wives  already,  too,  has  he — 
Poor  cussed  things  as  e'er  I  see — 
Does  she  mean  mischief  at  a  lark  ?" 
Waal,  all  the  men  at  thet  look'd  dark, 
And  scratch'd  their  heads  and  seem'd  in 

doubt 

At  last  her  brother  Jim  spoke  out — 
"Joe,  don't  blame  us — by  George,  it's  true, 
We're  chawed  by  this  as  much  as  you  ; 
We've  done  our  best  and  tried  and  tried, 
But  Ciss  is  off  her  head  with  pride. 
And  all  her  thoughts,  both  night  and  day, 
Are  with  the  Apostles  fur  away. 
'  O  that  I  were  in  bliss  with  them 
Theer  in  the  new  Jerusalem  ! ' 
She  says  ;  and  when  we  laugh  and  sneer, 
Ses  we're  jest  raging  wolves  down  here. 
She's  a  bit  dull  at  home  d'ye  see, 
Allays  liked  heaps  of  company, 
And  now  the  foolish  critter  paints 
A  life  of  larks  among  the  Saints. 
We've  done  our  best,  don't  hev  a  doubt, 
To  keep  the  old  Apostle  out : 
We've  trained  the  dogs  to  seize  and  bite  him, 
We've  got  up  ghosts  at  night  to  fright  him, 
Doctor'd  his  hoss  and  so  upset  him, 
Put  tickle-grass  in  bed  to  fret  him, 


THE  BOSS'S   TALE. 


355 


Jalap'd  his  beer  and  snuffed  his  tea  too, 
Gunpowder  in  his  pipe  put  free  too  ; 
A  dozen  times  we've  well-nigh  kill'd  him, 
We've  skeer'd  him,  shaken  him,  and  spill'd 

him  ; 

In  fact,  done  all  we  deer,"  said  Jim, 
"Against  a  powerful  man  like  him  ; 
But  all  in  vain  we've  hed  our  sport ; 
Jest  like  a  cat  that  cant  be  hurt, 
With  nine  good  lives  if  he  hev  one, 
Is  this  same  Hiram  Higginson !  "  ' 

v. 

JOE  ENDS  HIS  S  TORY— FIRST  GLIMPSE 
OF  UTAH. 

Joe  paused,  for  down  the  mountain's  brow, 

His  hastening  horses  trotted  now. 

Into  a  canyon  green  and  light, 

Thro'  which  a  beck  was  sparkling  light, 

Quickly  we  wound.    Joe  Wilson  lit 

His  cutty  pipe,  and  suck'd  at  it 

In  silence  grim  ;  and  when  it  drew, 

Puff  after  puff  of  smoke  he  blew, 

With  blank  eye  fixed  on  vacancy. 

At  last  he  turned  again  to  me, 

And  spoke  with  bitter  indignation 

The  epilogue  of  his  narration. 

'  Waal,  stranger,  guess  my  story's  told, 
The  Apostle  beat  and  I  was  bowl'd. 
Reckon  I  might  have  won  if  I 
Had  allays  been  at  hand  to  try  • 
But  I  was  busy  out  of  sight, 
And  he  was  theer,  morn,  noon,  and  night, 
Playing  his  cards,  and  waal  it  weer 
For  him  I  never  caught  him  theer. 
To  cut  the  story  short,  I  guess 
He  got  the  Prophet  to  say  "yes," 
And  Cissy  without  much  ado 
Gev  her  consent  to  hev  him  too  ; 
1  And  one  fine  morning  off  they  druv 
To  what  he  called  the  Abode  of  Love— 
A  dern'd  old  place,  it  seems  to  me, 
Jest  like  a  dove-box  on  a  tree, 
Where  every  lonesome  woman  soul 
Sits  shivering  in  her  own  hole, 
And  on  the  outside,  free  to  choose, 
The  old  cock-pigeon  struts  and  coos. 
I've  heard  from  many  a  one  that  Ciss 
Has  found  her  blunder  out  by  this, 
And  she'd  prefer  for  company 
A  brisk  young  chap,  tho'  poor,  like  me, 


Than  the  sixth  part  of  him  she's  won — 
The  holy  Hiram  Higginson. 
I've  got  a  peep  at  her  since  then, 
When    she's    crawl' d    out    of   thet    theer 

den, 

But  she's  so  pale  and  thin  and  tame 
I  shouldn't  know  her  for  the  same. 
No  flesh  to  pinch  upon  her  cheek, 
Her  legs  gone  thin,  no  voice  to  speak, 
Dabby  and  crush' d,  and  sad  and  flabby, 
Sucking  a  wretched  squeaking  baby  ; 
And  all  the  fun  and  all  the  light 
Gone  from  her  face,  and  left  it  white. 
Her  cheek  '11  take  a  feeble  flush, 
But  hesn't  blood  enough  to  blush  ; 
Tries  to  seem  modest,  peart  and  sly, 
And  brighten  up  if  I  go  by, 
But  from  the  corner  of  her  eyes 
Peeps  at  me  quietly,  and  sighs. 
Reckon  her  luck  has  been  a  stinger ! 
She'd  bolt  if  I  held  up  my  finger  ; 
But  tho'  I'm  rough,  and  wild,  and  free, 
Take  a  Saint ' s  leavings — no  not  me  ! 
You've  heerd  of  Vampires — them  that  rise 
At  dead  o'  night  with  flaming  eyes, 
And  into  women's  beds  '11  creep 
To  suck  their  blood  when  they're  asleep. 
I  guess  these  Saints  are  jest  the  same, 
Sucking  the  life  out  is  their  game  ; 
And  tho'  it  ain't  in  the  broad  sun 
Or  in  the  open  streets  it's  done, 
There  ain't  a  woman  they  clap  eyes  on 
Their  teeth  don't  touch,  their  touch  don't 

pison ; 

Thet's  their  dern'd  way  in  this  yer  spot — 
Grrr  !  git  along,  hoss  !  dern  you,  trot ! ' 

From  pool  to  pool  the  wild  beck  sped 
Beside  us,  dwindled  to  a  thread. 
With  mellow  verdure  fringed  around 
It  sang  along  with  summer  sound  : 
Here  gliding  into  a  green  glade  ; 
Here  darting  from  a  nest  of  shade 
With  sudden  sparkle  and  quick  cry, 
As  glad  again  to  meet  the  sky ; 
Here  whirling  off  with  eager  will 
And  quickening  tread  to  turn  a  mill ; 
Then  stealing  from  the  busy  place 
With  duskier  depths  and  wearier  pace 
In  the  blue  void  above  the  beck 
Sailed  with  us,  dwindled  to  a  speck, 
The  hen-hawk  ;  and  from  pools  below 
The  blue-wing' d  heron  oft  rose  slow, 

A  A  2 


356 


SAINT  ABE  AND  HIS  SEVEN   WIVES. 


And  upward  pass'd  with  measured  beat 
Of  wing  to  seek  some  new  retreat. 
Blue  was  the  heaven  and  darkly  bright, 
Suffused  with  throbbing  golden  light, 
And  in  the  burning  Indian  ray 
A  million  insects  hummed  at  play. 
Soon,  by  the  margin  of  the  stream, 
We  passed  a  driver  with  his  team 
Bound  for  the  City  ;  then  a  hound 
Afar  off  made  a  dreamy  sound  ; 
And  suddenly  the  sultry  track 
Left  the  green  canyon  at  our  back, 
And  sweeping  round  a  curve,  behold  ! 
We  came  into  the  yellow  gold 
Of  perfect  sunlight  on  the  plain  ; 
And  Joe  abruptly  drawing  rein, 
Said  quick  and  sharp,  shading  his  eyes 
With  sunburnt  hand,  '  See,  theer  it  lies — 
Theer's  Sodom  I' 

And  even  as  he  cried, 
The  mighty  Valley  we  espied, 
Burning  below  us  in  one  ray 
Of  liquid  light  that  summer  day  ; 
And  far  away,  "mid  peaceful  gleams 
Of  flocks  and  herds  and  glistering  streams. 
Rose,  fair  as  aught  that  fancy  paints, 
The  wondrous  City  of  the  Saints  ! 


THE   CITY  OF  THE  SAINTS. 

O  Saints  that  shine  around  the  heavenly  Seat  ! 
What  heaven  is  this  that  opens  at  my  feet  ? 
What  flocks  are  these  that  thro'  the  golden  gleam 
Stray  on  by  freckled  fields  and  shining  stream  ? 
What  glittering  roofs  and  white  kiosks  are  these 
Up-peeping  from  the  shade  of  emerald  trees? 
Whose  City  is  this  that  rises  on  the  sight 
Fair  and  fantastic  as  a  city  of  light 
Seen  in  the  sunset  ?    What  is  yonder  sea 
Opening  beyond  the  City  cool  and  free, 
Large,  deep,  and   luminous,  looming  thro'  the 

heat, 

And  lying  at  the  darkly  shadowed  feet 
Of  the  Sierras,  which  with  jagged  line 
Burning  to  amber  in  the  light  divine, 
Close  in  the  Valley  of  the  happy  land, 
With  heights  as  barren  as  a  dead  man's  hand  ? 

O  pilgrim,  halt !  O  wandering  heart,  give  praise 

Behold  the  City  of  these  Latter  Days  ! 

Here  may'st   thou  leave  thy  load  and  be  for 

given, 
And  in  anticipation  taste  of  Heaven ! 


AMONG  THE  PASTURES— SUMMF.R 
EVENING  DIALOGUE. 

Bishop  Pete.     Bishop  Joss.     Stranger. 

BISHOP   PETE. 

AH,  things  down  here,  as  you  observe,  are 

getting  more  pernicious, 
And  Brigham's  losing  all  his  nerve,  altho' 

the  fix  is  vicious, 
fest  as  we've  rear'd  a  prosperous  place  and 

fill'd  our  holy  quivers, 
The  Yankee  comes  with  dern'd  long  face  to 

give  us  all  the  shivers  ! 
And  on  his  jaws  a  wicked  grin  prognosti- 
cates disaster, 
And,  jest  as  sure  as  sin  is  sin,  he  means  to 

be  the  master. 
1  Pack  up  your  traps,'  I  hear  him  cry,  '  for 

here  there's  no  remainin',' 
And  winks  with  his    malicious  eye,   and 

progues  us  out  of  Canaan. 

BISHOP  JOSS. 

It  ain't  the  Yankee  that  /  fear,  the  neigh- 
bour, nor  the  stranger — 
No,  no,  it's  closer  home,  it's  here,  that  I 

perceive  the  danger. 
The  wheels  of  State  has  gather' d  rust,  the 

helm  wants  hands  to  guide  it, 
'Tain't  from  without  the  biler'll  bust,  but 

'cause  of  steam  inside  it ; 
Yet  if  we  went  falootin'  less,  and  made  less 

noise  and  flurry, 
It  isn't  Jonathan,  I  guess,  would  hurt  us  in 

a  hurry. 
But  there's  sedition    east  and  west,   and 

secret  revolution, 
There's  canker  in  the  social  breast,  rot  in 

the  constitution ; 
And  over  half  of  us,  at  least,  are  plunged 

in  mad  vexation, 
Forgetting  how  our  race  increased,  our  very 

creed's  foundation. 
What's  our  religion's  strength  and  force,  its 

substance,  and  its  story  ? 

STRANGER. 

Polygamy,  my  friend,  of  course  !  the  law  of 
love  and  glory  !  « 


THE   CITY  OF  THE  SAINTS. 


357 


BISHOP  PETE. 

Stranger,  I'm  with  you  there,  indeed  :— it's 

been  the  best  of  nusses  ; 
Polygamy  is  to  our  creed  what  meat  and 

drink  to  us  is. 
Destroy  that  notion  any  day,  and  all  the 

rest  is  brittle, 
And  Mormondom  dies  clean  away  like  one 

in  want  of  vittle. 
It's  meat  and  drink,  it's  life,  it's  power !  to 

heaven  its  breath  doth  win  us ! 
It  warms  our  vitals  every  hour!  it's  Holy 

Ghost  within  us  ! 
Jest  lay  that  notion  on  the  shelf,  and  all 

life's  springs  are  frozen  ! 
I've  half  a  dozen  wives  myself,  and  wish  I 

had  a  dozen ! 

BISHOP  JOSS. 

If  all  the  Elders  of  the  State  like  you  were 
sound  and  holy, 

P.  Shufflebotham,  guess  our  fate  were  far 
less  melancholy. 

You  air  a  man  of  blessed  toil,  far-shining 
and  discerning, 

A  heavenly  lamp  well  trimm'd  with  oil, 
upon  the  altar  burning. 

And  yet  for  every  one  of  us  with  equal  re- 
solution, 

There's  twenty  samples  of  the  Cuss,  as 
mean  as  Brother  Clewson. 

STRANGER. 

St.  Abe? 

BISHOP  JOSS. 
Yes,  him— the  snivelling  sneak — his  very 

name  provokes  me, — 
Altho"  my  temper's  milky-meek,  he  sours 

me  and  he  chokes  me. 
To  see  him  going  up  and  down  with  those 

meek  lips  asunder, 
Jest  like  a  man  about  to  drown,  with  lead 

to  sink  him  under, 
His  grey  hair  on  his  shoulders  shed,  one 

leg  than  t'other  shorter, 
No  end  of  cuteness  in  his  head,  and  him — 

as  weak  as  water  ! 

BISHOP  PETE. 

And  yet  how  well  I   can  recall  the  time 

when  Abe  was  younger — 
Why  not  a  chap  among  us  all  went  for  the 

notion  stronger. 


When  to  the  mother-country  he  was  sent 

to  wake  the  sinning, 
He  shipp'd  young  lambs  across  the  sea  by 

flocks — he  was  so  winning  ; 
O  but  he  had  a  lively   style,    describing 

saintly  blisses  ! 
He  made  the  spirit  pant  and  smile,  and 

seek  seraphic  kisses  ! 
How  the  bright  raptures  of  the  Saint  fresh 

lustre  seemed  to  borrow, 
While  black  and  awful  he  did  paint  the 

one-wived  sinner's  sorrow  ! 
Each  woman  longed  to  be  his  bride,  and  by 

his  side  to  slumber — 
'  The  more  the  blesseder ! '  he  cried,  still 

adding  to  the  number. 

STRANGER. 

How  did  the  gentleman  contrive  to  change 
his  skin  so  quickly  ? 

BISHOP  JOSS. 

The  holy  Spirit  couldn't  thrive  because  the 

Flesh  was  sickly ! 
Tho'  day  by  day  he  did  increase  his  flock, 

his  soul  was  shallow, 
His  brains  were  only  candle-grease,  and 

wasted  down  like  tallow. 
He  stoop'd  a  mighty  heap  too  much,  and 

let  his  household  rule  him, 
The  weakness  of  the  man  was  such  that 

any  face  could  fool  him. 
Ay !  made  his  presence  cheap,  no  doubt, 

and  so  contempt  grew  quicker, — 
Not  measuring  his  notice  out  in  smallish 

drams,  like  liquor. 
His  house  became  a  troublous  house,  with 

mischief  overbrimmin', 
And  he  went  creeping  like  a  mouse  among 

the  cats  of  women. 
Ah,  womenfolk  are  hard  to  rule,  their  tricks 

is  most  surprising, 

It's  only  a  dern'd  spoony  fool  goes  senti- 
mentalising! 
But  give  'em  now  and  then  a  bit  of  notice 

and  a  present, 
And  lor,  they're  just  like  doves,  that  sit  on 

one  green  branch,  all  pleasant ! 
But  Abe's  love  was  a  queer  complaint,  a 

sort  of  tertian  fever, 
Each  case  he  cured  of  thought  the  Saint  a 

thorough-paced  deceiver  ; 


358 


SAINT  ABE  AND  HIS  SEVEN   WIVES. 


And  soon  he  found,  he  did  indeed,  with  all 

their  whims  to  nourish, 
That    Mormonism    ain't    a    creed    where 

fleshly  follies  flourish. 

BISHOP  PETE. 

Ah,  right  you  air !    A  creed  it  is  demandin' 

iron  mettle ! 
A  will  that  quells,  as  soon  as  riz,  the  biling 

of  the  kettle  ! 
With  wary  eye,  with  manner  deep,  a  spirit 

overbrimmin', 
Like  to  a  shepherd  'mong  his  sheep,  the 

Saint  is  'mong  his  women  ; 
And  unto  him  they  do  uplift  their  eyes  in 

awe  and  wonder ; 
His  notice  is  a  blessed  gift,  his  anger  is 

blue  thunder. 
No  n'ises  vex  the  holy  place  where  dwell 

those  blessed  parties  ; 
Each  missus  shineth  in    her    place,   and 

blithe  and  meek  her  heart  is  ! 
They  sow,  they  spin,  they  darn,  they  hem, 

their  blessed  babes  they  handle, 
The  Devil  never  comes  to  them,  lit  by  that 

holy  candle ! 
When  in  their  midst  serenely  walks  their 

Master  and  their  Mentor, 
They're  hush'd,  as  when  the  Prophet  stalks 

down  holy  church's  centre  ! 
They  touch  his  robe,  they  do  not  move, 

those  blessed  wives  and  mothers, 
And,  when  on  one  he  shineth  love,  no  envy 

fills  the  others ; 
They    know  his    perfect    saintliness,   and 

honour  his  affection — 
And,  if  they  did  object,  I  guess  he'd  settle 

that  objection ! 

BISHOP  joss. 

It  ain't  a  passionate  flat    like    Abe    can 

manage  things  in  your  way  ! 
They  teased  that  most  etarnal  babe,    till 

things  were  in  a  poor  way. 
1  used  to  watch  his  thorny  bed,  and  bust 

my  sides  with  laughter. 
Once  give  a  female  hoss  her  head  you'll 

never  stop  her  after. 
It's  one  thing  getting  seal'd,  and  he  was 

mighty  fond  of  Sealing, 
He'd  all  the  human  heat,  d'ye  see,  without 

the  saintly  feeling. 


His  were  the  wildest  set  of  gals  that  ever 

drove  man  silly, 
Each  full  of  freaks  and  fal-de-lals,  as  frisky 

as  a  filly. 
One  pull'd  this  way,  and  t'other  that,  and 

made  his  life  a  mockery, 
They'd  all  the  feelings  of  a  cat  scampaging 

'mong  the  crockery. 
I  saw  Abe  growing  pale  and  thin,  and  well 

I  knew  what  ail'd  him — 
The  skunk  went  stealing  out  and  in,  and 

all  his  spirit  failed  him  ; 
And  tho'  the  tanning-yard  paid  well,  and 

he  was  money-making, 
His  saintly  home  was  hot  as  Hell,  and,  ah  ! 

how  he  was  baking  ! 
Why,  now  and  then  at  evening-time,  when 

his  day's  work  was  over. 
Up  this  here  hill  he  used  to  climb  and  squat 

among  the  clover, 
And  with  his  fishy  eye  he'd  glare  across  the 

Rocky  Mountains, 
And  wish  he  was  away  up  there,  among 

the  heavenly  fountains ! 
I  had  an  aunt,  Tabitha  Brooks,  a  virgin 

under  fifty, 
She  warn't  so  much  for  pretty  looks,  but 

she  was  wise  and  thrifty  : 
She'd  seen  the  vanities  of  life,  was  good  at 

'counts  and  brewin" — 
Thinks  I,  '  Here's  just  the  sort  of  Wife  to 

save  poor  Abe  from  ruin.' 
So,  after  fooling  many  a  week,  and  showing 

him  she  loved  him, 
And  seeing  he  was  shy  to  speak,  whatever 

feelings  moved  him, 
At  last  I  took  her  by  the  hand,  and  led  her 

to  him  straightway, 
One  day  when  we  could  see  him  stand  jest 

close  unto  the  gateway. 
My  words  were  to  the  p'int  and  brief :  says 

I,  '  My  brother  Clewson, 
There'll  be  an  end  to  all  your  grief,   if 

you've  got  resolution. 
Where  shall  you  find  a  house  that  thrives 

without  a  head  that's  ruling  ? 
Here  is  the  paragon  of  wives  to  teach  those 

others  schooling  ! 
She'll  be  to  you  not  only  wife,  but  careful 

as  A  mother — 
A  little  property  for  life  is  hers  ;    you'll 

share  it,  brother. 


THE   CITY  OF   THE  SAINTS. 


359 


I've  seen  the  question  morn  and  eve  within 

your  eyes  unspoken, 
You're  slow  and  nervous  I  perceive,  but 

now — the  ice  is  broken. 
Here  is  a  guardian  and  a  guide  to  bless  a 

man  and  grace  him  ; ' 
And  then  I  to  Tabitha  cried,  '  Go  in,  old 

gal — embrace  him  ! ' 

STRANGER. 

Why,  that  was  acting  fresh  and  fair  ; — but 
Abe,  was  he  as  hearty? 

BISHOP  JOSS. 

We  .    .    11 !      Abe    was    never  anywhere 

against  a.  female  party  ! 
At  first  he  seemed  about  to  run,  and  then 

we  might  have  missed  him  ; 
But  Tabby  was  a  tender  one,  she  collar' d 

him  and  kissed  him. 
And  round  his  neck  she  blushing  hung, 

part  holding,  part  caressing, 
And  murmur' d,  with  a  faltering  tongue, 

'  O,  Abe,  I'll  be  a  blessing.' 
And  home  they  walk'd  one  morning,  he 

just  reaching  to  her  shoulders, 
And  sneaking  at  her  skirt,  while  she  stared 

straight  at  all  beholders. 
Swinging  her  bonnet  by  the  strings,  and 

setting  her  lips  tighter, 
In  at  his  door  the  old  gal  springs,  her  grim 

eyes  growing  brighter  ; 
And,   Lord  !    there  was  the  devil  to  pay, 

and  lightning  and  blue  thunder, 
For  she  was  going  to  have  her  way,  and 

hold  the  vixens  under  ; 
They  would  have  torn  old  Abe  to  bits,  they 

were  so  anger-bitten, 
But  Tabby  saved  him  from  their  fits,  as  a 

cat  saves  her  kitten. 

STRANGER. 

It  seems  your  patriarchal  life  has  got  its 

botherations, 
And  leads  to  much  domestic   strife  and 

infinite  vexations  ! 
But  when  the  ladies  couldn't  lodge  in  peace 

one  house-roof  under, 
I  thought  that  'twas  the  saintly  dodge  to 

give  them  homes  asunder? 


BISHOP  joss. 

And  you  thought  right ;    it  is  a  plan  by 

many  here  affected — 
Never  by  me — I  ain't  the  man — I'll  have 

my  will  respected. 
If  all  the  women  of  my  house  can't  fondly 

pull  together, 
And  each  as  meek  as  any  mouse,  look  out 

for  stormy  weather ! — 
No,  no,  I  don't  approve  at  all  of  humour- 
ing my  women, 
And  building  lots  of  boxes  small  for  each 

one  to  grow  grim  in. 
I  teach  them  jealousy's  a  sin,  and  solitude's 

just  bearish, 
They  nuss  each  other  lying-in,  each  other's 

babes  they  cherish  ; 
It  is  a  family  jubilee,  and  not  a  selfish 

pleasure, 
Whenever  one  presents  to  me  another  infant 

treasure ! 
All  ekal,  all  respected,  each  with  tokens  of 

affection, 
They  dwell  together,  soft  of  speech,  beneath 

their  lord's  protection ; 
And  if  by  any  chance  I  mark  a  spark  of 

shindy  raising, 
I  set  my  heel  upon  that  spark, — before  the 

house  gets  blazing ! 
Now  that's  what  Clewson  should  have  done, 

but  couldn't,  thro'  his  folly, 
For  even  when  Tabby's  help  was  won,  he 

wasn't  much  more  jolly. 
Altho'  she  stopt  the  household  fuss,  and 

husht  the  awful  riot, 
The  old  contrairy  stupid  Cuss  could  not 

enj'y  the  quiet. 
His  house  was  peaceful  as  a  church,  all 

solemn,  still,  and  saintly ; 
And  yet  he'd  tremble  at  the  porch,  and 

look  about  him  faintly  ; 
And  tho'  the  place  was  all  his  own,  with 

hat  in  hand  he'd  enter, 
Like  one  thro'  public  buildings  shown,  soft 

treading  down  the  centre. 
Still,  things  were  better  than  before,  though 

somewhat  trouble-laden, 
When  one  fine  day  unto  his  door  there 

came  a  Yankee  maiden. 
'Is  Brother  Clewson  in?1  she  says;  and 

when  she  saw  and  knew  him. 


SAINT  ABE  AND  HfS   SEVEN   WIVES. 


The  stranger  gal  to  his  amaze  scream'd  out 

and  clung  unto  him. 
Then  in  a  voice  all  thick  and  wild,  exclaim'd 

that  gal  unlucky, 
'  O  Sir,  I'm  Jason  Jones's  child — he's  dead 

— stabb'd  in  Kentucky  ! 
And  father's  gone,  and  O  I've  come  to  you 

across  the  mountains.' 
And  then  the  little  one  was  dumb,   and 

Abe's  eyes  gushed  like  fountains.  .  .  . 
He  took  that  gal  into  his  place,  and  kept 

her  as  his  daughter — 
Ah,  mischief  to  her  wheedling  face  and  the 

bad  wind  that  brought  her  ! 

BISHOP  PETE. 

I  knew  that  Jones  ; — used  to  faloot  about 

Emancipation — 
It  made  your  very  toe-nails  shoot  to  hear 

his  declamation. 
And  when  he'd  made  all  bosoms  swell  with 

wonder  at  his  vigour, 
He'd  get  so  drunk  he  couldn't  tell  a  white 

man  from  a  nigger  ! 
Was  six  foot  high,  thin,  grim,  and  pale, — 

his  troubles  can't  be  spoken — 
Tarred,   feathered,    ridden  on  a  rail,  left 

beaten,  bruised,  and  broken  ; 
But  nothing  made  his  tongue  keep  still,  or 

stopt  his  games  improper, 
Till,  after  many  an  awkward  spill,  he  came 

the  final  cropper. 

BISHOP  JOSS. 

.  .  .  That  gal  was  fourteen  years  of  age, 

and  sly  with  all  her  meekness  ; 
It  put  the  fam'ly  in  a  rage,  for  well  they 

knew  Abe's  weakness. 
But  Abe  (a  cuss,  as  I  have  said,  that  any 

fool  might  sit  on) 
Was  stubborn  as  an  ass's  head,  when  once 

he  took  the  fit  on  ! 
And,  once  he  fixed  the  gal  to  take,  in  spite 

of  their  vexation, 
Not  all  the  rows  on  earth  would  break  his 

firm  determination. 
He  took  the  naggings  as  they  came,  he 

bowed  his  head  quite  quiet, 
Still  mild  he  was  and  sad  and  tame,  and 

ate  the  peppery  diet ; 
But  tho'  he  seemed  so  crush'd  to  be,  when 

this  or  that  one  blew  up, 


He  stuck  to  Jones's  Legacy  and  school' d 

her  till  she  grew  up. 
Well  !  there  !  the  thing  was  said  and  done, 

and  so  far  who  could  blame  him  ? 
But  O  he  was  a  crafty  one,  and  sorrow 

couldn't  shame  him ! 
That  gal  grew  up,  and  at  eighteen  was 

prettier  far  and  neater — 
There  were  not  many  to  be  seen  about  these 

parts  to  beat  her  ; 
Peart,  brisk,  bright-eyed,  all  trim  and  tight, 

like  kittens  fond  of  playing, 
A  most  uncommon  pleasant  sight  at  pic-nic 

or  at  praying, 
Then  it  became,  as  you'll  infer,  a  simple 

public  duty, 
To  cherish  and  look  after  her,  considering 

her  beauty  ; 
And  several  Saints  most  great  and  blest 

now  offer'd  their  protection, 
And  I  myself  among  the  rest  felt  something 

of  affection. 
But  O  the  selfishness  of  Abe,  all  things  it 

beats  and  passes ! 
As  greedy  as  a  two-year  babe  a  grasping  at 

molasses  ! 
When  once  those  Shepherds  of  the  flock 

began  to  smile  and  beckon, 
He  screamed  like  any  fighting  cock,  and 

raised  his  comb,  I  reckon  1 
First  one  was  floor'd,  then  number  two,  she 

wouldn't  look  at  any  ; 
Then  my  turn  came,  although  I  knew  the 

maiden's  faults  were  many. 
'My  brother  Abe,'  says  I,  '  I  come  untoe 

your  house  at  present 
To  offer  sister  Anne  a  home  which  she  will 

find  most  pleasant. 
You  know  I  am  a  saintly  man,  and  all  my 

ways  are  lawful ' — 
And  in  a  minute  he  began  abusing  me  most 

awful. 
'  Begone,"  he  said,  '  you're  like  the  rest, — 

wolves,  wolves  with  greedy  clutches  ! 
Poor  little  lamb,  but  in  my  breast  I'll  shield 

her  from  your  touches  ! ' 
'  Come,  come,'  says  I,  '  a  gal  can't  stay  a 

child  like  that  for  ever, 
You'H  /lev  to  seal  the  gal  some  day  ; '  but 

Abe  cried  fiercely,  '  Never  ! ' 
Says  I,  '  Perhaps  it's  in  your  view  yourself 
this  lamb  to  gather  ? ' 


THE   CITY  OF  THE  SAINTS. 


361 


And  '  If  it  is,  what's  that  to  you  ? '  he  cried  ; 

'  but  I'm  her  father  ! 

You  get  along,  I  know  your  line,  it's  crush- 
ing, bullying,  wearing, 
You'll  never  seal  a  child  of  mine,  so  go,  and 

don't  stand  staring  ! ' 
This  was  the  man  once  mild  in  phiz  as  any 

farthing  candle — 
A  hedgehog  now,  his  quills  all  riz,  whom 

no  one  dared  to  handle  ! 
But  O  I  little  guessed  his  deal,  nor  tried  to 

circumvent  it, 
I  never  thought  he'd  dare  to  seal  another  ; 

but  he  meant  it ! 
Yes,  managed  Brigham  on  the  sly,  for  fear 

his  plans  miscarried, 
And  long  before  we'd  time  to  cry,  the  two 

were  sealed  and  married. 

BISHOP  PETE. 

Well,  you've  your  consolation  now — he's 

punish'd  clean,  I'm  thinking, 
He's  ten  times  deeper  in  the  slough,  up  to 

his  neck  and  sinking. 
There's  vinegar  in  Abe's  pale  face  enough 

to  sour  a  barrel, 
Goes  crawling  up  and   down  the    place, 

neglecting  his  apparel, 
Seems  to  have  lost  all  heart  and  soul,  has 

fits  of  absence  shocking — 
His    home  is  like  a  rabbit's    hole  when 

weasels  come  a-knocking. 
And  now  and  then,  to  put  it  plain,  while 

falling  daily  sicker, 
I  think  he  tries  to  float  his  pain  by  copious 

goes  of  liquor. 

BISHOP  joss.  , 

Yes,  that's  the  end  of  selfishness,  it  leads  to 

long  vexation — 
No  man  can  pity  Abe,  I  guess,  who  knows 

his  situation  ; 
And,  Stranger,  if  this  man  you  meet,  don't 

take  him  for  a  sample, 
Although  he  speaks  you  fair  and  sweet,  he's 

set  a  vile  example. 
Because  you  see  him  ill  at  ease,  at  home, 

and  never  hearty, 
Don't  think  these  air  the  tokens,  please,  of 

a  real  saintly  party  ! 
No,  he's  a  failure,  he's  a  sham,  a  scandal 

to  our  nation, 


Not  fit  to  lead  a  single  lamb,  unworthy  of 

his  station  ; 
No  !  if  you  want  a  Saint  to  see,  who  rules 

lambs  when  he's  got  'em, 
Just  cock  your  weather-eye  at  me,  or  Brother 

Shufflebotham. 
We  don't  go  croaking  east  and  west,  afraid 

of  women's  faces, 
We  bless  and   we  air  truly  blest  in  our 

domestic  places ; 
We  air  religious,  holy  men,  happy  our  folds 

to  gather, 
Each  is  a  loyal  citizen,  also  a  husband — 

rather. 
But  now  with  talk  you're  dry  and  hot,  and 

weary  with  your  ride  here, 
Jest  come  and  see  my  fam'ly  lot, — they're 

waiting  tea  inside  here. 

II. 

WITHIN  THE  CITY. 
ST.  ABE  AND  THE  SEVEN. 

Sister  Tabitha,  thirty  odd, 

Rising  up  with  a  stare  and  a  nod  ; 

Sister  Amelia,  sleepy  and  mild, 

Freckled,  Dudu-ish,  suckling  a  child  ; 

Sister  Fanny,  pert  and  keen, 

Sister  Emily,  solemn  and  lean, 

Sister  Mary,  given  to  tears, 

Sister  Sarah,  with  wool  in  her  ears  ; — 

All  appearing  like  tapers  wan 

In  the  mellow  sunlight  of  Sister  Anne. 

With  a  tremulous  wave  of  his  hand,  the 
Introduces  the  household  quaint, 
And  sinks  on  a  chair  and  looks  around, 
As  the  dresses  rustle  with  snakish  sound, 
As  curtsies  are  bobb'd,  and  eyes  cast 
Some  with  a  simper,  some  with  a  frown. 
And  Sister  Anne,  with  a  fluttering  breast, 
Stands  trembling  and  peeping  behind  the 
rest. 

Every  face  but  one  has  been 
Pretty,  perchance,  at  the  age  of  eighteen 
Pert  and  pretty,  and  plump  and  bright 
But  now  their  fairness  is  faded  quite, 
And  every  feature  is  fashion'd  here 
To  a  flabby  smile,  or  a  snappish  sneer. 
Before  the  stranger  they  each  assume 
A  false  fine  flutter  and  feeble  bloom, 


362 


SAINT  ABE   AND   HIS  SEVEN  WIVES. 


And  a  little  colour  comes  into  the  cheek 
When  the  eyes  meet  mine,  as  I  sit  and  speak ; 
But  there  they  sit  and  look  at  me, 
Almost  withering  visibly, 
And  languidly  tremble  and  try  to  blow — 
Six  pale  roses  all  in  a  row  ! 

Six?  ah,  yes  ;  but  at  hand  sits  one, 

The  seventh,  still  full  of  the  light  of  the  sun. 

Though  her  colour  terribly  comes  and  goes, 

Now  white  as  a  lily,  now  red  as  a  rose, 

So  sweet  she  is,  and  so  full  of  light, 

That  the  rose  seems  soft,  and  the  lily  bright. 

Her  large  blue  eyes,  with  a  tender  care, 

Steal  to  her  husband  unaware, 

And  whenever  he  feels  them  he  flushes  red, 

And  the  trembling  hand  goes  up  to  his  head ! 

Around  those  dove-like  eyes  appears 

A  redness  as  of  recent  tears. 

Alone  she  sits  in  her  youth's  fresh  bloom 

In  a  dark  corner  of  the  room, 

And  folds  her  hands,  and  does  not  stir, 

And  the  others  scarcely  look  at  her, 

But  crowding  together,  as  if  by  plan, 

Draw  further  and  further  from  Sister  Anne. 

I  try  to  rattle  along  in  chat, 

Talking  freely  of  this  and  that — 

The  crops,  the  weather,  the  mother-land, 

Talk  a  baby  could  understand  ; 

And  the  faded  roses,  faint  and  meek, 

Open  their  languid  lips  to  speak. 

But  in  various  sharps  and  flats,  all  low, 

Gave  a  lazy  '  yes '  or  a  sleepy  '  no.' 

Yet  now  and  then  Tabitha  speaks, 

Snapping  her  answer  with  yellow  cheeks, 

And  fixing  the  Saint  who  is  sitting  by 

With  the  fish-like  glare  of  her  glittering  eye, 

Whenever  the  looks  of  the  weary  man 

Stray  to  the  corner  of  Sister  Anne. 

Like  a  fountain  in  a  shady  place 
Is  the  gleam  of  the  sadly  shining  face — 
A  fresh  spring  whither  the  soul  might  turn, 
When  the  road  is  rough,  and  the  hot  sands 

burn  ; 

Like  a  fount,  or  a  bird,  or  a  blooming  tree, 
To  a  weary  spirit  is  such  as  she  ! 
And  Brother  Abe,  from  his  easy  chair, 
Looks  thither  by  stealth  with  an  aching  care, 
And  in  spite  of  the  dragons  that  guard  the 

brink 

Would  stoop  to  the  edge  of  the  fount,  I  think , 
And  drink  !  and  drink  ! 


'  Drink?     Stuff  and  fiddlesticks,'  you  cry. 

Matron  reader  with  flashing  eye  : 

'  Isn't  the  thing  completely  his, 

His  wife,  his  mistress,  whatever  you  please? 

Look  at  her !      Dragons   and   fountains  ! 

Absurd ! ' 

Madam,  I  bow  to  every  word  ; 
But  truth  is  truth,  and  cannot  fail, 
And  this  is  quite  a  veracious  tale. 
More  like  a  couple  of  lovers  shy, 
Who  flush  and  flutter  when  folk  are  by, 
Were  man  and  wife,  or  (in  another 
And  holier  parlance)  sister  and  brother. 
As  a  man  of  the  world  I  noticed  it, 
And  it  made  me  speculate  a  bit, 
For  the  situation  was  to  my  mind 
A  phenomenon  of  a  curious  kind — 
A  person  in  love  with  his  wife,  'twas  clear, 
But  afraid,  when  another  soul  was  near, 
Of  showing  his  feelings  in  any  way 
Because— there  would  be  the  Devil  to  pay  ! 

The  Saint  has  been  a  handsome  fellow. 
Clear-eyed,  fresh-skinn'd,  if  a  trifle  yellow, 
And  his  face,  though  somewhat  soft  and  plain, 
Ends  in  a  towering  mass  of  brain. 

His  locks,  though  still  an  abundant  crop, 
Are  thinning  a  little  at  the  top, 
But  you  only  notice  here  and  there 
The  straggling  gleam  of  a  silver  hair. 
A  man  by  nature  rolled  round  and  short, 
Meant  for  the  Merry  Andrew's  sport, 
But  sober' d  down  by  the  wear  and  tear 
Of  business  troubles  and  household  care : 
Quiet,  reticent,  gentle,  kind, 
Of  amorous  heart  and  extensive  mind, 
A  Saint  devoid  of  saintly  sham, 
Is  little  Brother  Abraham. 

Brigham's  right  hand  he  used  to  be — 

Mild  though  he  seems,  and  simple,  and  free  ; 

Sound  in  the  ways  of  the  world,  and  great 

In  planning  potent  affairs  of  state  ; 

Not  bright,  nor  bumptious,  you  must  know, 

Too  retiring  for  popular  show, 

But  known  to  conceive  on  a  startling  scale 

Gigantic  plans  that  never  fail ; 

To  hold  with  a  certain  secret  sense 

The  Prophet  under  his  influence, 

To  be,  I  am  led  to  understand, 

The  Brain,  while  the  Prophet  is  the  Hand, 

And  to  see  his  intellectual  way 


THE    CITY   OF   THE  SAINTS. 


363 


Thro'  moral  dilemmas  of  every  day, 
By  which  the  wisest  are  led  astray. 

Here's  the  Philosopher  ! — here  he  sits, 
Here,  with  his  vaguely  wandering  wits, 
Among  the  dragons,  as  I  have  said, 
Smiling,  and  holding  his  hand  to  his  head. 
What  mighty  thoughts  are  gathering  now 
Behind  that  marble  mass  of  brow? 
What  daring  schemes  of  polity 
To  set  the  popular  conscience  free, 
And  bless  humanity,  planneth  he  ? 
His  talk  is  idle,  a  surface-gleam, 
The  ripple  on  the  rest  of  the  stream, 
But  his  thoughts — ah,  his  thoughts — where 

do  they  fly, 

While  the  wretched  roses  under  his  eye 
Flutter  and  peep  ?  and  in  what  doth  his  plan 
Turn  to  the  counsel  of  Sister  Anne  ? 
For  his  eyes  give  ever  a  questioning  look, 
And  the  little  one  in  her  quiet  nook 
Flashes  an  answer,  and  back  again 
The  question  runs  to  the  Brother's  brain, 
And  the  lights  of  speculation  flit 
Over  his  face  and  trouble  it. 

Follow  his  eyes  once  more,  and  scan 
The  fair  young  features  of  Sister  Anne  : 
Frank  and  innocent,  and  in  sooth 
Full  of  the  first  fair  flush  of  youth. 
Quite  a  child — nineteen  years  old  ; 
Not  gushing,  and  self-possessed,  and  bold, 
Like  our  Yankee  women  at  nineteen, 
But  low  of  voice,  and  mild  of  mien — 
More  like  the  fresh  young  fruit  you  see 
In  the  mother-land  across  the  sea — 
More  like  that  rosiest  flower  on  earth, 
A  blooming  maiden  of  English  birth, 
Such  as  we  find  them  yet  awhile 
Scatter'd  about  the  homely  Isle, 
•     Not  yet  entirely  eaten  away 
By  the  canker-novel  of  the  day, 
Or  curling  up  and  losing  their  scent 
In  a  poisonous  dew  from  the  Continent. 

There  she  sits,  in  her  quiet  nook, 
Still  bright  tho'  sadden' d ;  and  while  I  look, 
My  heart  is  filled  and  my  eyes  are  dim, 
And  I  hate  the  Saint  when  I  turn  to  him  ! 
Ogre  !     Blue  Beard  !     Oily  and  sly  ! 
His  meekness  a  cheat,  his  quiet  a  lie  ! 
A  roaring  lion  he'll  walk  the  house 
Tho'  now  he  crouches  like  any  mouse  ! 


Had  not  he  pluck'd  enough  and  to  spare 

Of  roses  like  these  set  fading  there, 

But  he  must  seek  to  cajole  and  kiss 

Another  yet,  and  a  child  like  this  ? 

A  maid  on  the  stalk,  just  panting  to  prove 

The  honest  joy  of  a  virgin  love  ; 

A  girl,  a  baby,  an  innocent  child, 

To  be  caught  by  the  first  man's  face  that 

smiled  ! 

Scarce  able  the  difference  to  fix 
Of  polygamy  and  politics  ! 
Led  to  the  altar  like  a  lamb, 
And  sacrificed  to  the  great  god  Sham  \ 
Deluded,  martyr'd,  given  to  woe, 
Last  of  seven  who  have  perish"  d  so  ; 
For  who  can  say  but  the  flowers  I  see 
Were  once  as  rosy  and  ripe  as  she? 

Already  the  household  worm  has  begun 
To  feed  on  the  cheeks  of  the  little  one  ; 
Already  her  spirit,  fever-fraught, 
Droops  to  the  weight  of  its  own  thought ; 
Already  she  saddens  and  sinks  and  sighs, 
Watched  by  the  jealous  dragonish  eyes. 
Even  Amelia,  sleepy  and  wan, 
Sharpens  her  orbs  as  she  looks  at  Anne  ; 
While  Sister  Tabby,  when  she  can  spare 
Her  gaze  from  the  Saint  in  his  easy-chair, 
Fixes  her  with  a  gorgon  glare. 

All  is  still  and  calm  and  polite, 

The  Sisters  bolster  themselves  upright, 

And  try  to  smile,  but  the  atmosphere 

Is  charged  with  thunder  and  lightning  here. 

Heavy  it  seems,  and  close  and  warm, 

Like  the  air  before  a  summer  storm  ; 

And  at  times, — as  in  that  drowsy  dream 

Preluding  thunder,  all  sounds  will  seem 

Distinct  and  ominously  clear, 

And  the  far-off  cocks  seem  crowing  near  ; — 

Ev'n  so  in  the  pauses  of  talk,  each  breast 

Is  strangely  conscious  of  the  rest, 

And  the  tick  of  the  watch  of  Abe  the  Saint 

Breaks  on  the  air,  distinct  though  faint, 

Like  the  ticking  of  his  heart ! 

I  rise 

To  depart,  still  glancing  with  piteous  eyes 
On  Sister  Anne ;  and  I  find  her  face 
Turn'd  questioning  still  to   the  same  old 

place — 

The  face  of  the  Saint.     I  stand  and  bow, 
Curtsies  again  are  bobbing  now, 


364 


SAINT  ABE  AND  HIS  SEVEN   WIVES. 


Dresses  rustling  ...  I  know  no  more 
Till  the  Saint  has  led  me  to  the  door, 
And  I  find  myself  in  a  day-dream  dim, 
Just  after  shaking  hands  with  him, 
Standing  and  watching  him  sad  and  slow 
Into  the  dainty  dwelling  go, 
With  a  heavy  sigh,  and  his  hand  to  his  head. 

.  .  .  Hark,  distant  thrmder  \ — 'tis  as  I  said  : 
The  air  was  far  too  close  ;— at  length 
The  Storm  is  breaking  in  all  its  strength. 

in. 
PROMENADE— MAIN  STREET,  UTAH. 

THE  STRANGER. 

Along  the  streets  they're  thronging,  walking, 
Clad  gaily  in  their  best  and  talking, 

Women  and  children,  quite  a  crowd  ; 
The  bright  sun  overhead  is  blazing, 
The  people  sweat,  the  dust  they're  raising 

Arises  like  a  golden  cloud. 
Still  out  of  every  door  they  scatter, 
Laughing    and    light.     Pray    what's    the 

matter, 
That  such  a  flock  of  folks  I  see? 

A  LOUNGER. 

They're  off  to  hear  the  Prophet  patter, 
This  yer's  a  day  of  jubilee. 

VOICES. 

Come  along,  we're  late  I  reckon.  .  . 
There's  our  Matt,  I  see  him  beckon.  .  . 
How  d'ye  do,  marm  ?  glad  to  meet  you.  .  . 
Silence,  Hiram,  or  I'll  beat  you,  .  . 
Emm,  there's  brother  Jones  a-looking.  .  . 
Here's  warm  weather,  how  I'm  cooking ! 

STRANGER. 

Afar  the  hills  arise  with  cone  and  column 
Into  a 'sky  of  brass  serene  and  solemn  ; 
And  underneath  their  shadow  in  one  haze 
Of  limpid  heat  the  great  salt  waters  blaze, 
While  faint  and  filmy  through  the  sultry 

veil 

The  purple  islands  on  their  bosom  sail 
Like  floating  clouds  of  dark  fantastic  air. 
How    strangely    sounds    (while    'mid  the 

Indian  glare 
Moves  the  gay  crowd  of  people  old  and 

young) 
The  bird-like  chirp  of  the  old  Saxon  tongue! 


The  women  seem  half  weary  and  half  gay, 
Their  eyes  droop  in  a  melancholy  way, — 
I  have  not  seen  a  merry  face  to-day. 


A  BISHOP. 

Thet's  a  smart  hoss  you're  riding,  brother  ! 
How  are  things  looking,  down  with  you? 

SECOND   BISHOP. 

Not  over  bright  with  one  nor  'tother, 
Taters  are  bad,  tomatoes  blue. 

You've  heer'dof  Brother  Simpson's  losses? — 
Buried  his  wife  and  spiled  his  hay. 

And  the  three  best  of  Hornby's  bosses 
Some  Injin  cuss  has  stol'n  away. 

VOICES. 

Zoe,  jest  fix  up  my  gown.  .  . 
There's  my  hair  a-coming  down.  .  . 
Drat  the  babby,  he's  so  crusty — 
It's  the  heat  as  makes  him  thusty.  .  . 
Come  along,  I'm  almost  sinking.  .  . 
There's  a  stranger,  and  he's  winking. 

STRANGER. 

That  was  a  fine  girl  with  the  grey-hair'd 

lady, 
How  shining  were  her  eyes,  how  true  and 

steady, 
Not  drooping    down    in    guilty   Mormon 

fashion, 
But  shooting  at  the  soul  their  power  and 

passion. 

That's  a  big  fellow,  six  foot  two,  not  under, 
But  how  he  struts,  and  looks  as  black  as 

thunder, 
Half  glancing  round  at  his  poor  sheep  to 

scare  'em — 
Six,  seven,  eight,  nine, — O  Abraham,  what 

a  harem  ! 
All  berry  brown,  but  looking  scared  as  may 

be, 
And  each  one  but  the  oldest  with  a  baby. 


Phoebe  ! 


A  GIRL. 
ANOTHER. 

Yes,  Grace ! 

FIRST  GIRL. 

Don't  seem  to  notice,  dear, 
That  Yankee  from  the  camp  again  is  here, 
Making  such  eyes,  and  following  on  the  sly, 
And  coughing  now  and  then  to  show  he's 
nigh. 


THE   CITY  OF  THE  SAINTS. 


365 


SECOND  GIRL. 

Who's  that  along  with  him— the  little  scamp 
Shaking  his   hair  and  nodding  with  a 
smile  ? 

FIRST  GIRL. 

Guess  he's  some  new  one  just  come  down 
to  camp. 

SECOND  GIRL. 

Isn't  he  handsome? 

FIRST  GIRL. 

No  ;  the  first's  my  style ! 

STRANGER. 

If  my  good  friends,  the  Saints,  could  get 

their  will, 

These  Yankee  officers  would  fare  but  ill ; 
Wherever  they  approach  the  folk  retire, 
As  if  from  veritable  coals  of  fire  ; 
With  distant  bow,  set  lips,  and  half-hid 

frown, 

The  Bishops  pass  them  in  the  blessed  town  ; 
The  women  come  behind  like  trembling 

sheep, 
Some  freeze  to  ice,  some  blush  and  steal  a 

peep. 

And  often,  as  a  band  of  maidens  gay 
Comes  up,  each  maid  ceases  to  talk  and 

play, 
Droops  down  her  eyes,  and  does  not  look 

their  way ; 

But  after  passing  where  the  youngsters  pine, 
All  giggle  as  at  one  concerted  sign, 
And  tripping  on  with  half-hush 'd  merry 

cries, 
Look  boldly  back  with  laughter  in   their 

eyes  ! 

VOICES. 

Here  we  are,  .  .  how  folk  are  pushing  !  .  . 
Mind  the  babby  in  the  crushing.  .  . 
Pheemy !    .    .    Yes,  John !   .    .    Don't  go 

staring 

At  that  Yankee — it's  past  bearing. 
Draw  your  veil  down  while  he  passes, 
Reckon  you're  as  bold  as  brass  is. 

ABE  CLEWSON. 
(Passing  with  his  hand  to  his  head,  attended 

by  his  Wives.] 

Head  in  a  whirl,  and  heart  in  a  flutter, 
Guess  I  don't  know  the  half  that  I  utter. 


Too  much  of  this  life  is  beginning  to  try  me, 
I'm  like  a  dern'd  miller  the  grind  always 

nigh  me  ; 

Praying  don't  soothe  me  nor  comfort  me  any, 
My  house  is  too  full  and  my  blessings  too 

many — 
The  ways    o'   the    wilderness    puzzle    me 

greatly. 

SISTER   TABITHA. 

Do  walk  like  a  Christian,  and  keep  kind  o' 

stately  ! 
And  jest  keep  an  eye  on  those  persons 

behind  you, 
You  call  'em  your  Wives,  but  they  tease 

you  and  blind  yon  ; 
Sister  Anne's  a  disgrace,  tho'  you  think  her 

a  martyr, 
And  she's  tuck'd  up  her  petticoat  nigh  to 

her  garter. 

STRANGER. 

What  group  is  this,  begrim'd  with  dust  and 
heat, 

Staring  like  strangers  in  the  open  street? 

The  women,  ragged,  wretched,    and  half 
dead, 

Sit  on  the  kerbstone  hot  and  hang  the  head, 

And  clustering  at  their  side  stand  children 
brown, 

Weary,  with  wondering  eyes  on  the  fair 
town. 

Close  by  in  knots  beside  the  unhorsed  team 

The   sunburn'd   men   stand   talking  in  a 
dream, 

For  the  vast  tracts  of  country  left  behind 

Seem  now  a  haunting  mirage  in  the  mind. 

Gaunt  miners  folding  hands    upon  their 

breasts, 

Big-jointed    labourers    looking     ox-like 
down, 

And  sickly  artizans  with  narrow  chests 
Still  pallid  from  the  smoke  of  English 
town. 

Hard  by  to  these  a  group  of  Teutons  stand, 

Light  hair'd,  blue-eyed,  still  full  of  Father- 
land, 

With  water-loving  Northmen,  who  grow  gay 

To  see  the  mimic  sea  gleam  far  away. 

Now  to  this  group,  with  a  sharp  question- 
ing face, 

Cometh  a  holy  magnate  of  the  place 

In  decent  black  ;  shakes  hands  with  some ; 
and  then 


366 


SAINT  ABE  AND  HIS  SEVEN  WIVES. 


Begins  an  eager  converse  with  the  men  : 
All  brighten  ;  even  the  children  hush  their 

cries, 
And  the  pale  women  smile  with  sparkling 

eyes. 

BISHOP. 

The  Prophet  welcomes  you,  and  sends 
His  message  by  my  mouth,  my  friends  ; 
He'll  see  you  snug,  for  on  this  shore 
There's  heaps  of  room  for  millions  more  !  .  . 
Scotchman,  I  take  it?  .  .  Ah,  I  know 
Glasgow — was  there  a  year  or  so.  .  . 
And  if  you  don't  from  Yorkshire  hail, 
I'll— ah,  I  thought  so  ;  seldom  fail. 
Make  yourselves  snug  and  rest  a  spell, 
There's  liquor  coming — meat  as  well. 
All  welcome !     We  keep  open  door — 
Ah,  we  don't  push  away  the  poor  ; 
Tho"  he's  a  fool,  you  understand, 
Who  keeps  poor  long  in  this  here  land. 
The  land  of  honey  you  behold — 
Honey  and  milk— silver  and  gold ! 

AN  ARTIZAN. 

Ah,  that's  the  style— Bess,  just  you  hear  it ; 
Come,  come,  old  gal,  keep  up  your  spirit : 
Silver  and  gold,  and  milk  and  honey, 
This  is  the  country  for  our  money  ! 

A  GERMAN. 

Es  lebe  die  Stadt !  es  lebe  dran  ! 
Das  heilige  Leben  steht  mir  an  ! 

A   NORTHMAN. 

Taler  du  norske  ? 

BISHOP. 

(Shaking  his  head,  and  turning  with  a 
wink  to  the  English. ) 

No,  not  me ! 

Saxon's  the  language  of  the  free  ! 
The  language  of  the  great  Evangels  ! 
The  language  of  the  Saints  and  Angels  ! 
The  only  speech  that  Joseph  knew  ! 
The  speech  of  him  and  Brigham  too  ! 
Only  the  speech  by  which  we've  thriven 
Is  comprehended  up  in  Heaven  !  .  . 
Poor  heathens  !  but  we'll  make  'em  spry, 
They'll  talk  like  Christians  by-and-by. 

STRANGER.     (Strolling  out  of  the  streets. ) 
From  east,  from  west,  from  every  worn-out 

land, 
Yearly  they  stream  to  swell  this  busy  band. 


Out  of  the  fever'd  famine  of  the  slums, 
From  sickness,  shame,  and  sorrow,  Lazarus 

comes, 
Drags  his  sore  limbs  o'er  half  the  world  and 

sea, 

Seeking  for  freedom  and  felicity. 
The  sewer  of   ignorance  and  shame  and 

loss, 

Draining  old  Europe  of  its  dirt  and  dross, 
Grows  the  great  City  by  the  will  of  God  ; 
While  wondrously  out  of  the  desert  sod, 
Nourished  with  lives  unclean  and  weary 

hearts, 

The  new  faith  like  a  splendid  weed  upstarts. 
A  splendid  weed  !  rather  a  fair  wild-flower, 
Strange  to  the  eye  in  its  first  birth  of 

power, 

But  bearing  surely  in  its  breast  the  seeds 
Of  higher  issues  and  diviner  deeds. 
Changed  from  Sahara  to  a  fruitful  vale 
Fairer  than  ever  grew  in  fairy  tale, 
Transmuted  into  plenteous  field  and  glade 
By  the   slow   magic   of   the   white  man's 

spade, 

Grows  Deseret,  filling  its  mighty  nest 
Between  the  eastern  mountains  and  the  west, 
While — who    goes    there  ?      What    shape 

antique  looks  down 
From  this  green  mound  upon  the  festive 

town, 

With  tall  majestic  figure  darkly  set 
Against  the  sky  in  dusky  silhouette  ? 
Strange  his  attire :  a  blanket  edged  with  red 
Wrapt  royally  around  him  ;  on  his  head 
A  battered  hat  of  the  strange  modern  sort 
Which  men  have  christened  '  chimney  pots ' 

in  sport  ; 

Mocassins  on  his  feet,  fur-fringed  and  grand, 
And  a  large  green  umbrella  in  his  hand. 
Pensive  he  stands  with  deep-lined  dreamy 

face, 

Last  living  remnant  of  the  mighty  race 
Who  on  these  hunting-fields  for  many  a  year 
Chased  the  wild  buffalo,  and  elk,  and  deer 
Heaven  help  him  !     In  his  mien  grief  and 

•  despair 

Seem  to  contend,  as  he  stands  musing  there  ; 
Until  he  notices  that  I  am  nigh, 
And    lo !    with    outstretched    hands    and 

glistening  eye 
Swift  he  descends — Does  he  mean  mischief? 

No; 
He  smiles  and  beckons  as  I  turn  to  go. 


THE   CITY  OF   THE  SAINTS. 


367 


INDIAN. 

Me  Medicine  Crow.     White  man  gib  drink 

to  me. 
Great  chief ;  much  squaw  ;  papoose,  sah, 

one,  two,  three  ! 

STRANGER. 

With  what  a  leer,  half  wheedling  and  half 

winking, 

The  lost  one  imitates  the  act  of  drinking  ; 
His  nose  already,  to  his  woe  and  shame, 
Carbuncled  with  the  white  man's  liquid  flame ! 
Well,  I  pull  out  my  flask,  and  fill  a  cup 
Of  burning  rum — how  quick  he  gulps  it  up  ; 
And  in  a  moment  in  his  trembling  grip 
Thrusts  out  the  cup  for  more  with  thirsty  lip. 
But  no  !— already  drunken  past  a  doubt, 
Degenerate  nomad  of  the  plains,  get  out ! 
[A  railway  whistle  sounds  in  the  far 

distance. 

Fire-hearted  Demon  tamed  to  human  hand, 
Rushing  with  smoky  breath  from  land  to 

land, 

Screaming  aloud  to  scare  with  rage  and  wrath 
Primasval  ignorance  before  his  path, 
Dragging  behind  him  as  he  runs  along 
His  lilliputian  masters,  pale  and  strong, 
With  melancholy  sound  for  plain  and  hill 
Man's  last  Familiar  Spirit  whistles  shrill. 

Poor  devil  of  the  plains,  now  spent  and  frail, 
Hovering  wildly  on  the  fatal  trail, 
Pass  on! — there  lies  thy  way  and  thine  abode, 
Get  out  of  Jonathan  thy  master's  road. 
Where  ?    anywhere  ! — he's    not    particular 

where, 

So  that  you  clear  the  road,  he  does  not  care  ; 
Off,  quick  !  clear  out !  ay,  drink  your  fill 

and  die  ; 

And,  since  the  Earth  rejects  you,  try  the  Sky! 
And  see  if  He,  who  sent  your  white-faced 

brother 
To  hound  and  drive  you  from  this  world 

you  bother, 
Can  find  a  corner  for  you  in  another  ! 


WITHIN  THE  SYNAGOGUE. 
SERMONIZETH  THE  PROPHET. 

THE  PROPHET. 

Sisters  and  brothers  who  love  the  right, 
Saints  whose  hearts  are  divinely  beating 


We' 


Children  rejoicing  in  the  light, 
I  reckon  this  is  a  pleasant  meeting. 

Where's  the  face  with  a  look  of  grief? — 
ehovah's  with  us  and  leads  the  battle ; 
e've  had  a  harvest  beyond  belief, 
And  the  signs  of  fever  have  left  the  cattle ; 

All  still  blesses  the  holy  life 

Here  in  the  land  of  milk  and  honey. 

FEMININE  WHISPERS. 

Brother  Shuttleworth's  seventeenth  wife,  .  . 
Her  with  the  heer  brushed  up  so  funny  ! 

THE  PROPHET. 

Out  of  Egypt  hither  we  flew, 

Through  the  desert  and  rocky  places  ; 
The  people  murmur'd,  and  all  look'd  blue, 
The  bones  of  the  martyr'd  filled  our  traces. 
Mountain  and  valley  we  crawl'd  along, 
And    every   morning    our    hearts    beat 

quicker. 
Our  flesh  was  weak,  but  our  souls  were 

strong, 
And  we'd  managed  to  carry  some  kegs  of 

liquor. 

At  last  we  halted  on  yonder  height, 
Just  as  the  sun  in  the  west  was  blinking. 

FEMININE  WHISPERS. 

Isn't  Jedge  Hawkins's  last  a  fright  ?  .  .  . 
I'm  suttin  that  Brother  Abe's  been  drink- 
ing ! 

THE  PROPHET. 

That  night,  my  lambs,  in  a  wondrous  dream, 

I  saw  the  gushing  of  many  fountains  ; 
Soon  as  the  morning  began  to  beam, 

Down  we  went  from  yonder  mountains, 
Found  the  water  just  where  I  thought, 

Fresh  and  good,  though  a  trifle  gritty, 
Pitch'd  our  tents  in  the  plain,  and  wrought 

The  site  and  plan  of  the  Holy  City. 
1  Pioneers  of  the  blest,'  I  cried, 

'  Dig,   and    the    Lord  will    bless    each 
spadeful. 

FEMININE  WHISPERS. 

Brigharn's  sealed  to  another  Bride  .  .  . 
How  worn  he's  gittin' !  he's  aging  dread- 
ful. 

THE  PROPHET. 

This  is  a  tale  so  often  told, 

The  theme  of  every  eventful  meeting ; 
Yes  !  you  may  smile  and  think  it  old  ; 

But  yet  it's  a  tale  that  will  bear  repeating. 


368 


SAINT  ABE  AND  HIS  SEVEN   WIVES. 


That's  how  the  City  of  Light  began, 

That's  how  we  founded  the  saintly  nation, 

AH  by  the  spade  and  the  arm  of  man, 
And  the  aid  of  a  special  dispensation. 

4  Work '  was  the  word  when  we  begun, 
'  Work  '  is  the  word  now  we  have  plenty. 

FEMININE   WHISPERS. 

Heard  about  Sister  Euphemia's  son  ?  .  .  . 
Sealing  already,  though  only  twenty  ! 

THE  PROPHET. 

I  say  just  now  what  I  used  to  say, 
Though  it  moves  the  heathens  to  mock 

and  laughter, 
From  work  to  prayer  is  the  proper  way — 

Labour  first,  and  Religion  after. 
Let  a  big  man,  strong  in  body  and  limb, 
Come  here  inquiring  about  his  Maker, 
This  is  the  question  I  put  to  him, 

'  Can  you  grow  a  cabbage,  or  reap  an 

acre  ? ' 

What's  the  soul  but  a  flower  sublime, 
Grown  in  the    earth    and    upspringing 
surely? 

FEMININE   WHISPERS. 

O  yes  !  she's  hed  a  most  dreadful  time  ! 
Twins,   both  thriving,   though  she's  so 
poorly. 

THE  PROPHET. 

Beauty,  my  friends,  is  the  crown  of  life, 

To  the  young  and  foolish  seldom  granted  ; 
After  a  youth  of  honest  strife 

Comes    the    reward    for    which    you've 

panted. 
O  blessed  sight  beyond  compare, 

When    life    with    its    halo    of   light    is 

rounded, 
To  see  a  Saint  with  reverend  hair 

Sitting  like  Solomon  love-surrounded  ! 
One  at  his  feet  and  one  on  his  knee, 

Others  around  him, blue-eyed  and  dreamy! 

FEMININE  WHISPERS. 

All  very  well,  but  as  for  me, 

My   man   had   better! — I'd  pison  him, 
Pheemy  ! 

THE  PROPHET. 

There  in  the  gate  of  Paradise 
The  Saint  is  sitting  serene  and  hoary, 

Tendrils  of  arms,  and  blossoms  of  eyes, 
Festoon  him  round  in  his  place  of  glory  ; 


Little  cherubs  float  thick  as  bees 

Round  about  him,  and  murmur  '  father  ! ' 

The  sun  shines  bright  and  he  sits  at  ease, 
Fruit  all  round  for  his  hand  to  gather. 

Blessed  is  he  and  for  ever  gay, 
Floating  to  Heaven  and  adding  to  it  I 

FEMININE  WHISPERS. 

Thought  I  should  have  gone  mad  that  day 
He  brought  a  second  ;  I  made  him  rue  it  i 

THE  PROPHET. 

Sisters  and  Brothers  by  love  made  wise, 

Remember,  when  Satan  attempts  to  quell 

you, 
If  this  here  Earth  isn't  Paradise 

You'll  never  see  it,  and  so  I  tell  you. 
Dig  and  drain,  and  harrow  and  sow, 

God  will  bless  you  beyond  all  measure  ; 
Labour,  and  meet  with  reward  below, 

For   what   is  the  end  of    all   labour? 

Pleasure  ! 
Labour's  the  vine,  and  pleasure's  the  grape, 

The  one  delighting,  the  other  bearing. 

FEMININE  WHISPERS. 


Higginson's  third  is  losing  her  shape, 
bhe  hes  too  many — it's  dreadful  wearing. 

THE   PROPHET. 

But  I  hear  some  awakening  spirit  cry, 

'  Labour  is  labour,  and  all  men  know  it ; 
But  what  is  pleasure?'  and  I  reply, 

Grace  abounding  and  Wives  to  show  it  ! 
Holy  is  he  beyond  compare 

Who  tills  his  acres  and  takes  his  blessing, 
Who  sees  around  him  everywhere 

Sisters  soothing  and  babes  caressing. 
And  his  delight  is  Heaven's  as  well, 

For  swells  he  not  the  ranks  of  the  chosen  ? 

FEMININE  WHISPERS. 

Martha  is  growing  a  handsome  gel.  .  .  . 
Three  at  a  birth  ? — that  makes  the  dozen. 

THE  PROPHET. 

Learning's  a  shadow,  and  books  a  jest, 
One   Book's  a  Light,  but  the  rest  are 

human. 
The  kind  of  study  that  I  think  best 

Is  the  use  of  a  spade  and  the  love  of  a 

woman. 

Here  and  yonder,  in  heaven  and  earth, 
By  big  Salt  Lake  and  by  Eden  river, 


THE   CITY  OF  THE  SAINTS. 


369 


The  finest  sight  is  a  man  of  worth, 
Never  tired  of  increasing  his  quiver. 

He  sits  in  the  light  of  perfect  grace 
With  a  dozen  cradles  going  together  ! 

FEMININE  WHISPERS. 

The  babby's  growing  black  in  the  face  ! 
Carry    him    out — it's    the    heat    of   the 
weather ! 

THE  PROPHET. 

A  faithful  vine  at  the  door  of  the  Lord, 

A  shining  flower  in  the  garden  of  spirits, 
A  lute  whose  strings  are  of  sweet  accord, 

Such  is  the  person  of  saintly  merits. 
Sisters  and  brothers,  behold  and  strive 

Up  to  the  level  of  his  perfection  ; 
Sow,  and  harrow,  and  dig,  and  thrive, 

Increase  according  to  God's  direction. 
This  is  the  Happy  Land,  no  doubt, 

Where  each  may  flourish  in  his  voca- 
tion. .  .  . 
Brother  Bantam  will  now  give  out 

The  hymn  of  love  and  of  jubilation. 


v. 

THE  FALLING  OF  THE  THUNDERBOLT. 

Deep  and  wise  beyond  expression 
Sat  the  Prophet  holding  session, 
And  his  Elders,  round  him  sitting 
With  a  gravity  befitting, 
Never  rash  and  never  fiery, 
Chew'd  the  cud  of  each  inquiry, 
Weigh'd  each  question  and  discussed  it, 
Sought  to  settle  and  adjust  it, 
Till,  with  sudden  indication 
Of  a  gush  of  inspiration, 
The  grave  Prophet  from  their  middle 
Gave  the  answer  to  their  riddle, 
And  the  lesser  lights  all  holy, 
Round  the  Lamp  revolving  slowly, 
Thought,  with  eyes  and  lips  asunder, 
'  Right,  we  reckon  he's  a  wonder  ! ' 

Whether  Boyes,  that  blessed  brother, 
Should  be  sealed  unto  another, 
Having,  tho'  a  Saint  most  steady, 
Very  many  wives  already  ? 
Whether  it  was  held  improper, 
If  a  woman  drank,  to  drop  her  ? 
Whether  unto  Brother  Fleming 


Formal  praise  would  be  beseeming, 

Since  from  three  or  four  potatoes 

(Not  much  bigger  than  his  great  toes) 

He'd  extracted,  to  their  wonder, 

Four  stone  six  and  nothing  under  ? 

Whether  Bigg  be  reprimanded 

For  his  conduct  underhanded, 

Since  he'd  packed  his  prettiest  daughter 

To  a  heathen  o'er  the  water  ? 

How,  now  Thompson  had  departed, 

His  poor  widows,  broken-hearted, 

Should  be  settled  ?    They  were  seven, 

Sweet  as  cherubs  up  in  heaven  ; 

Three  were  handsome,  young,  and  pleasant, 

And  had  offers  on  at  present — 

Must  they  take  them  ?  .  .  .  These  and  other 

Questions  proffer'd  by  each  brother, 

The  great  Prophet  ever  gracious, 

Free  and  easy,  and  sagacious, 

Answer'd  after  meditation 

With  sublime  deliberation  ; 

And  his  answers  were  so  clever 

Each  one  whisper'd,  '  Well,  I  never  ! ' 

And  the  lesser  lights  all  holy, 

Round  the  Prophet  turning  slowly, 

Raised  their  reverend  heads  and  hoary, 

Thinking,  '  To  the  Prophet,  glory  ! 

Hallelujah,  veneration  ! 

Reckon  that  he  licks  creation  ! ' 

Suddenly  as  they  sat  gleaming, 

On  them  came  an  unbeseeming 

Murmur,  tumult,  and  commotion, 

Like  the  breaking  of  the  ocean  ; 

And  before  a  word  was  utter'd, 

In  rush'd  one  with  voice  that  fluttered, 

Arms  uplifted,  face  the  colour 

Of  a  bran-new  Yankee  dollar, 

Like  a  man  whose  wits  are  addled, 

Crying — '  Brother  Abes  skedaddled  I ' 

Then  those  Elders  fearful-hearted 

Raised  a  loud  cry  and  upstarted, 

But  the  Prophet,  never  rising, 

Said,  '  Be  calm  !  this  row's  surprising  ! ' 

And  as  each  Saint  sank  unsinew'd 

In  his  arm-chair  he  continued  : 

'  Goodman  Jones,  your  cheeks  are  yellow, 

Tell  thy  tale,  and  do  not  bellow  ! 

What's  the  reason  of  your  crying — 

Is  our  brother  dead? — or  dying!  ' 

As  the  Prophet  spake,  supremely 
Hushing  all  the  strife  unseemly, 

BB 


370 


SAINT  ABE   AND   HIS  SEVEN   WIVES. 


Sudden  in  the  room  there  entered 
Shapes  on  whom  all  eyes  were  centred — 
Six  sad  female  figures  moaning, 
Trembling,  weeping,  and  intoning, 
'  We  are  widows  broken-hearted — 
Abraham  Clewson  has  departed  ! ' 

While  the  Saints  again  upleaping 
Joined  their  voices  to  the  weeping, 
For  a  moment  the  great  Prophet 
Trembled,  and  look'd  dark  as  Tophet. 
But  the  cloud  pass'd  over  lightly. 
'  Cease  ! '  he  cried,  but  sniffled  slightly, 
'  Cease  this  murmur  and  be  quiet — 
Dead  men  won't  awake  with  riot. 
'Tis  indeed  a  loss  stupendous — 
When  will  Heaven  his  equal  send  us  ? 
Speak,  then,  of  our  brother  cherish'd, 
Was  it  fits  by  which  he  perish'd? 
Or  did  Death  come  even  quicker, 
Thro'  a  bolting  horse  or  kicker  ? ' 

At  the  Prophet's  question  scowling, 
All  the  Wives  stood  moaning,  howling, 
Crying  wildly  in  a  fever, 
'O  the  villain  !  the  deceiver  ! ' 
But  the  oldest  stepping  boldly, 
Curtseying  to  the  Session  coldly, 
Cried  in  voice  like  cracking  thunder, 
'  Prophet,  don't  you  make  a  blunder  ! 
Abraham  Clewson  isn't  dying — 
Hasn't  died,  as  you're  implying  ; 
No  !  he's  not  the  man,  my  brothers, 
To  die  decently  like  others  ! 
Worse  !  he's  from  your  cause  revolted — 
Run  away  !  skedaddled  !  bolted  ! ' 

Bolted !  run  away  !  skedaddled  ! 
Like  to  men  whose  wits  are  addled, 
Echoed  all  those  Lights  so  holy, 
Round  the  Prophet  shining  slowly 
And  the  Prophet,  undissembling, 
Underneath  the  blow  sat  trembling, 
While  the  perspiration  hovered 
On  his  forehead,  and  he  covered 
With  one  trembling  hand  his  features 
From  the  gaze  of  smaller  creatures. 
Then  at  last  the  high  and  gifted 
Cough'd  and  craved,  with  hands  uplifted, 
Silence.     When  'twas  given  duly, 
'  This,'  said  he,  '  's  a  crusher  truly  ! 
Brother  Clewson  fall'n  from  glory  ! 
I  can  scarce  believe  your  story. 


0  my  Saints,  each  in  his  station, 
Join  in  prayer  and  meditation  ! ' 

Covering  up  each  eyelid  saintly 

With  a  finger-tip,  prayed  faintly, 

Shining  in  the  church's  centre, 

Their  great  Prophet,  Lamp,  and  Mentor ; 

And  the  lesser  Lights  all  holy, 

Round  the  Lamp  revolving  slowly, 

Each  upon  his  seat  there  sitting, 

With  a  gravity  befitting, 

Bowed  their  reverend  heads  and  hoary, 

Saying,  '  To  the  Prophet  glory  ! 

Hallelujah,  veneration  ! 

Reckon  that  he  licks  creation  ! ' 

Lastly,  when  the  trance  was  ended, 
And,  with  face  where  sorrow  blended 
Into  pity  and  compassion, 
Shone  the  Light  in  common  fashion  ; 
Forth  the  Brother  stept  who  brought  them 
First  the  news  which  had  distraught  them, 
And,  while  stood  the  Widows  weeping, 
Gave  into  the  Prophet's  keeping 
A  seal'd  paper,  which  the  latter 
Read,  as  if  'twere  solemn  matter — 
Gravely  pursing  lips  and  nodding, 
While  they  watch'd  in  dark  foreboding, 
Till  at  last,  with  voice  that  quivered, 
He  these  woeful  words  delivered  : — 

'  Sisters,  calm  your  hearts  unruly, 

'Tis  an  awful  business  truly  ; 

Weeping  now  will  save  him  never, 

He's  as  good  as  lost  for  ever ; 

Yes,  I  say  with  grief  unspoken, 

Jest  a  pane  crack'd,  smash'd,  and  broken 

In  the  windows  of  the  Temple  — 

Crack'd  's  the  word— so  take  example  1 

Had  he  left  ye  one  and  all  here, 

On  our  holy  help  to  call  here, 

Fled  alone  from  every  fetter, 

1  could  comprehend  it  better  ! 
Flying,  not  with  some  strange  lady, 
But  with  her  he  had  already, 
With  his  own  seal'd  Wife  eloping — 
It's  a  case  of  craze  past  hoping ! 
List,  O  Saints,  each  in  his  station, 
To  the  idiot's  explanation  !  ' 

Then,  while  now  and  then  the  holy 
Broke  the  tale  of  melancholy 
With  a  grunt  contempt  expressing, 
And  the  Widows  made  distressing 


THE   CITY  OF  THE  SAINTS. 


Murmurs  of  recrimination 
Here  and  there  in  the  narration, 
The  great  Prophet  in  affliction 
Read  this  awful  Valediction. 


LAST  EPISTLE  OF  ST.  ABE  TO  THE 

POLYGA  MISTS. 

0  Brother,  Prophet  of  the  Light !— don't 

let  my  state  distress  you, 
While  from  the  depths  of  darkest  night  I 
cry,  '  Farewell  !  God  bless  you  ! ' 

1  don't  deserve  a  parting  tear,  nor  even  a 

malediction, 
Too  weak  to  fill  a  saintly  sphere,  I  yield  to 

my  affliction  ; 
.     Down  like  a  cataract  I  shcot  into  the  depths 

below  you  ; 
While  you  stand  wondering  and  mute,  my 

last  adieu  I  throw  you  ; 
Commending  to  your  blessed  care  my  well- 
beloved  spouses, 
My  debts  (there's  plenty  and  to  spare  to 

pay  them),  lands,  and  houses, 
My  sheep,   my  cattle,  farm  and  fold,  yea, 

all  by  which  I've  thriven  : 
These  to  be  at  the  auction  sold,  and  to  my 

widows  given. 
Bless  them  !  to  prize  them  at  their  worth 

was  far  beyond  my  merit, 
Just  make  them  think  me  in  the  earth,  a 

poor  departed  spirit. 
I  couldn't  bear  to  say  good-bye,  and  see 

their  tears  up-starting ; 
I  thought  it  best  to  pack  and  fly  without 

the  pain  of  parting  ! 

O  tell  Amelia,  if  she  can,  by  careful  educa- 
tion, 
To  make  her  boy  grow  up  a  man  of  strength 

and  saintly  station  ! 
Tell  Fanny  to  beware  of  men,  and  say  I'm 

still  her  debtor — 
Tho'  she  cut  sharpish   now  and   then,   I 

think  it  made  me  better  ! 
Let  Emily  still  her  spirit  fill  with  holy  con- 
solations- 
Seraphic  soul,   I  hear  her  still   a-reading 

'  Revelations ! ' 
Bid  Mary  now  to  dry  her  tears — she's  free 

of  her  chief  bother  ; 
And  comfort  Sarah — I've  my  fears  she's 

going  to  be  a  mother  ; 


And  to  Tabitha  give  for  me  a  tender  kiss  of 

healing — 
Guilt  wrings  my  soul  - 1  seem  to  see  that 

well-known  face  appealing  ! 

And  now, — before  my  figure  fades  for  ever 

from  your  vision, 
Before  I  mingle  with  the  shades  beyond 

your  light  Elysian, 
Now,  while  your  faces  all  turn  pale,  and 

you  raise  eyes  and  shiver, 
Let  me  a  round  unvarnish'd  tale  (as  Shak- 

spere  says)  deliver  ; 
And  let  there  be  a  warning  text  in  my  most 

shameful  story, 
When  some  poor  sheep,  perplext  and  vext, 

goes  seeking  too  much  glory. 

0  Brigham,  think  of  my  poor  fate,  a  scandal 

to  beholders, 

And  don't  again  put  too  much  weight  before 
you've  tried  the  shoulders  ! 

Though  I'd  the  intellectual  gift,  and  knew 

the  rights  and  reasons  ; 
Though  I  could  trade,  and  save,  and  shift, 

according  to  the  seasons  ; 
Though  I  was  thought  a  clever  man,  and 

was  at  spouting  splendid, — 
Just  think  how  finely  I  began,  and  see  how 

all  has  ended ! 
In  principle  unto  this  hour  I'm  still  a  holy 

being— 
But  oh,  how  poorly  is  my  power  propor- 

tion'd  to  my  seeing  ! 
You've  all  the  logic  on  your  side,  you're 

right  in  each  conclusion, 
And  yet  how  vainly  have  I  tried,  with  eagei 

resolution  ! 
My  will  was  good,  I  felt  the  call,  although 

my  strength  was  meagre, 
There  wasn't  one  among  you  all  to  serve 

the  Lord  more  eager  ! 

1  never  tired  in  younger  days  of  drawing 

lambs  unto  me, 
My  lot  was  one  to  bless  and  praise,  the  fire 

of  faith  thrill'd  through  me. 
And  you,  believing  I  was  strong,  smiled  on 

me  like  a  father, — 
Said,  '  Blessed  be  this  man,  though  young, 

who  the  sweet  lambs  doth  gather  ! ' 
At  first  it  was  a  time  full  blest,  and  all  my 

earthly  pleasure 
Was  gathering  lambs  unto  my  breast  to 

cherish  and  to  treasure ; 

B  B  a 


372 


SAINT  ABE  AND  HIS  SEVEN  WIVES. 


Ay,   one  by  one,   for  heaven's  sake,    my 

female  flock  I  found  me, 
Until  one  day  I  did  awake  and  heard  them 

bleating  round  me, 
And  there  was  sorrow  in  their  eyes,  and 

mute  reproach  and  wonder, 
For  they  perceived  to  their  surprise  their 

Shepherd  was  a  blunder. 
O  Brigham,  think  of  it  and  weep,  my  firm 

and  saintly  Master — 
The  Pastor  trembled  at  his  Sheep,  the  Sheep 

despised  the  Pastor  I 

0  listen  to  the  tale  of  dread,  thou  Light 

that  shines  so  brightly — 
Virtue's  a  horse  that  drops  down  dead  if 

overloaded  slightly ! 
She's  all  the  will,  she  wants  to  go,  she'd 

carry  every  tittle  ; 
But  when  you  see  her  flag  and  blow,  just 

ease  her  of  a  little  ! 
One  wife  for  me  was  near  enough,  two 

might  have  fixed  me  neatly, 
Three  made  me  shake,  four  made  me  puff, 

five  settled  me  completely, — 
But  when  the  sixth  came,  though  I  still  was 

glad  and  never  grumbled, 

1  took  the  staggers,  kick'd,  went  ill,  and 

in  the  traces  tumbled  ! 

Ah,  well  may  I  compare  my  state  unto  a 

beast's  position- 
Unfit  to  bear  a  saintly  weight,  I  sank  and 

lost  condition  ; 
I  lack'd  the  moral  nerve  and  thew,  to  fill  so 

fine  a  station — 
Ah,  if  I'd  had  a  head  like  you,  and  your 

determination  ! 
Instead  of  going  in  and  out,  like  a  superior 

party, 
I  was  too  soft  of  heart,  no  doubt,  too  open, 

and  too  hearty. 
When  I  began  with  each  young  sheep  I  was 

too  free  and  loving, 
Not  being  strong  and  wise  and  deep,  I  set 

\i£xfeelings  moving  ; 
And  so,  instead  of  noticing  the  gentle  flock 

in  common, 
I  waken'd  up  that  mighty  thing — the  Spirit 

of  a  Woman. 
Each  got  to  think  me,  don't  you  see,— so 

foolish  was  the  feeling, — 
Her  own  especial  property,  which  all  the 
»rest  were  stealing ! 


And,   since  I  could  not  give  to  each  the 

whole  of  my  attention, 
All  came  to  grief,  and  parts  of  speech  too 

delicate  to  mention  ! 
Bless  them  !  they  loved  me  far  too  much, 

they  erred  in  their  devotion, 
I  lack'd  the  proper  saintly  touch,  subduing 

mere  emotion : — 
The  solemn  air  sent  from  the  skies,  so  cold, 

so  tranquillising, 
That  on  the  female  waters  lies,  and  keeps 

the  same  from  rising, 
But  holds  them  down  all  smooth  and  bright, 

and,  if  some  wild  wind  storms  'em, 
Comes  like  a  cold  frost  in  the  night,  and 

into  ice  transforms  'em  ! 

And  there,  between  ourselves,  I  see  the 

difficulty  growing, 
Since  most  men  are  as  meek  as  me,  too 

passionate  and  glowing ; 
They  cannot  in  your  royal  way  dwell  like  a 

guest  from  Heaven 
Within  this  tenement  of  clay,  which  for  the 

Soul  is  given  ; 
They  cannot  like  a  blessed  guest  come  calm 

and  strong  into  it, 
Eating  and  drinking  of  its  best,  and  calmly 

gazing  thro'  it. 
No,  every  mortal's  not  a  Saint,  and  truly 

very  few  are, 
So  weak  they  are,  they  cannot  paint  what 

holy  men  like  you  are. 
Instead  of  keeping  well  apart  the  Flesh  and 

Spirit,  brother, 
And  making    one  with    cunning  art   the 

nigger  of  the  other, 
They  muddle  and  confuse  the  two,  they 

mix,  and  twist  and  mingle, 
So  that  it  takes  a  cunning  view  to  make  out 

either  single. 
The  Soul  gets    mingled  with    the    Flesh 

beyond  all  separation, 
The   Body  holds  it  in  a  mesh  of  animal 

sensation  ; 
The  poor  bewilder'd  Being,  grown  a  thing 

in  nature  double, 
Half  light  and  soul,  half  flesh  and  bone,  is 

given  up  to  trouble. 

He  thinks  the  instinct  of  the  clay  the  glow- 
ings  of  the  Spirit, 
And  when  the  Spirit  has  her  say,  inclines 

the  Flesh  to  hear  it. 


THE   CITY  OF  THE  SAINTS. 


373 


The  slave  of  every  passing  whim,  the  dupe 

of  every  devil, 
Inspired  by  every  female  limb  to  love,  and 

light,  and  revel, 
Impulsive,  timid,  weak,  or  strong,  as  Flesh 

or  Spirit  makes  him, 

The  lost  one  wildly  moans  along  till  mis- 
chief overtakes  him  ; 
And  when  the  Soul  has  fed  upon  the  Flesh 

till  life's  spring  passes, 
Finds  strength  and  health    and    comfort 

gone — the  way  of  last  year's  grasses, 
And  the  poor  Soul  is  doom'd  to  bow,  in 

deep  humiliation, 
Within  a  place  that  isn't  now  a  decent 

habitation. 

No !  keep  the  Soul  and  Flesh  apart  in  pious 

resolution, 
Don't  let  weak  flutterings  of  the  heart  lead 

you  to  my  confusion  ! 
But  let  the  Flesh  be  as  the  horse,  the  Spirit 

as  the  rider, 
And  use  the  snaffle  first  of  course,  and  ease 

her  up  and  guide  her  ; 
And  if  she's  going  to  resist,  and  won't  let 

none  go  past  her, 
Just  take  the  curb  and  give  a  twist,  and 

show  her  you're  the  Master. 
The  Flesh  is  but  a  temporal  thing,  and 

Satan's  strength  is  in  it, 
Use  it,  but  conquer  it,  and  bring  its  vice 

down  every  minute ! 
Into  a  woman's  arms  don't  fall,  as  if  you 

meant  to  stay  there, 
Just  come  as  if  you'd  made  a  call,  and 

idly  found  your  way  there  ; 
Don't  praise  her  too  much  to  her  face,  but 

keep  her  calm  and  quiet, — 
Most  female  illnesses  take  place  thro'  far 

too  warm  a  diet ; 
Unto  her  give  your  fleshly  kiss,  calm,  kind, 

and  patronising, 
Then— soar  to  your  own  sphere  of  bliss, 

before  her  heart  gets  rising  ! 
Don't  fail  to  let  her  see  full  clear,  how  in 

your  saintly  station 
The  Flesh  is  but  your  nigger  here  obeying 

your  dictation  ; 
And  tho'  the  Flesh  be  e'er  so  warm,  your 

Soul  the  weakness  smothers 
Of  loving  any  female  form  much  better  than 

the  others  ! 


O  Brigham,  I  can  see  you  smile  to  hear 

the  Devil  preaching  ; — 
Well,  I  can  praise  your  perfect  style,  tho' 

far  beyond  my  reaching. 
Forgive  me,  if  in  shame  and  grief  I  vex  you 

with  digression, 
And  let  me  come  again  in  brief  to  my  own 

dark  confession. 

The  world  of  men    divided  is  into   two 

portions,  brother, 
The  first  are  Saints,  so  high  in  bliss  that 

they  the  Flesh  can  smother  ; 
God  meant  them  from  fair  flower  to  flower 

to  flutter,  smiles  bestowing, 
Tasting  the  sweet,  leaving  the  sour,  just 

hovering, — and  going. 
The  second  are  a  different  set,  just  halves 

of  perfect  spirits, 
Going  about  in  bitter  fret,  of  uncompleted 

merits, 
Till    they  discover,    here    or    there,   their 

other  half  (or  woman), 
Then  these  two  join,  and  make  a  Pair,  and 

so  increase  the  human. 
The  second  Souls  inferior  are,  a  lower  spirit- 
order, 
Born  'neath  a  less  auspicious  star,  and  taken 

by  soft  sawder  ; — 
And  if  they  do  not  happen  here  to  find  their 

fair  Affinity, 
They  come  to  grief  and  doubt  and  fear,  and 

end  in  asininity  ; 
And  if  they  try  the  blessed  game  of  those 

superior  to  them, 
They're  very  quickly  brought  to  shame, — 

their  passions  so  undo  them. 
In  some  diviner  sphere,    perhaps,    they'll 

look  and  grow  more  holy, — 
Meantime  they're  vessels  Sorrow  taps  and 

grim  Remorse  sucks  slowly. 

Now,  Brigham,  /  was  made,  you  see,  one 

of  those  lower  creatures, 
Polygamy  was  not  for  me,  altho'  I  joined 

its  preachers. 
Instead  of,  with  a  wary  eye,  seeking  the  one 

who  waited, 
And  stick5  ng  to  her,  wet  or  dry,  because 

the  thing  was  fated, 
I  snatch'd  the  first  whose  beauty  stirred  my 

soul  with  tender  feeling  ! 
And  then  another !   then  a  third  !  and  so 

continued  Sealing  ! 


374 


SAINT  ABE  AND  HIS  SEVEN   WIVES. 


And  duly,  after  many  a  smart,  discovered, 

sighing  faintly, 
I  hadn't  found  my  missing  part,  and  wasn't 

strong  and  saintly  ! 

0  they  were  far  too  good  for  me,  altho'  their 

zeal  betrayed  them  ; — 
Unfortunately,  don't  you  see,  heaven  for 

some  other  made  them  : 
Each  would  a  downright  blessing  be,  and 

Peace  would  pitch  the  tent  for  her, 
If  '  she '  could  only  find  the  '  he '  originally 

meant  for  her  ! 

Well,    Brother,   after  many  years  of  bad 

domestic  diet, 
One  morning  I  woke  up  in  tears,  still  weary 

and  unquiet, 
And  (speaking  figuratively)  lo  !  beside  my 

bed  stood  smiling 
The   Woman,  young  and  virgin  snow,  but 

beckoning  and  beguiling. 

1  started  up.  my  wild  eyes  rolled,  I  knew 

her,  and  stood  sighing, 
My  thoughts  throng' d  up  like  bees  of  gold 

out  of  the  smithy  flying. 
And    as  she    stood    in    brightness    there, 

familiar,  tho"  a  stranger, 
I  looked  at  her   in    dumb    despair,   and 

trembled  at  the  danger. 

But,  Brother  Brigham,  don't  you  think 

the  Devil  could  so  undo  me, 
That  straight  I  rushed  the  cup  to  drink  too 

late  extended  to  me. 
No,  for  I  hesitated  long,  ev'n  when  I  found 

she  loved  me, 
And  didn't  seem  to  think  it  wrong  when 

love  and  passion  moved  me. 
O  Brigham,  you're  a  Saint  above,  and  know 

not  the  sensation 
The    ecstasy,    the    maddening    lore,    the 

rapturous  exultation, 
That  fills  a  man  of  lower  race  with  wonder 

past  all  speaking, 
When  first  he  finds  in  one  sweet  face  the 

Soul  he  has  been  seeking  ! 
When  two  immortal  beings  glow  in  the  first 

fond  revealing, 
And  their  inferior  natures  know  the  luxury 

of  feeling  ! 
But  ah,  I  had  already  got  a  quiver-full  of 

blessing, 
Had  blundered,  tho'   I  knew  it  not,   six 

times  beyond  redressing, 


And  surely  it  was  time  to  stop,  tho'  still  my 

lot  was  lonely  : 
My  house  was  like  a  cobbler's  shop,  full, 

tho'  with  '  misfits '  only. 

And  so  I  should  have  stopt,  I  swear,  the 

wretchedest  of  creatures, 
Rather  than  put  one  mark  of  care  on  her 

beloved  features : 
But  that  it  happen'd  Sister  Anne  (ah,  now 

the  secret's  flitted!) 
Was  left  in  this  great  world  of  man  unto 

my  care  committed. 
Her  father,  Jason  Jones,  was  dead,  a  man 

whose  faults  were  many, 
'  O,  be  a  father,  Abe,'  he  said,  '  to  my  poor 

daughter  Annie  ! ' 
And  so  I  promised,  so  she  came  an  Orphan 

to  this  city, 
And  set  my  foolish  heart  in  flame  with 

mingled  love  and  pity  ; 
And  as  she  prettier  grew  each  day,  and 

throve  'neath  my  protection, 
/  saw  the  Saints  did  cast  her  way  some 

tokens  of  affection. 
O,  Brigham,  pray  forgive  me  now  ; — envy 

and  love  combining, 

I  hated  every  saintly  brow,  benignantly  in- 
clining ! 
Sneered  at  their  motives,  mocked  the  cause, 

went  wild  and  sorrow-laden, 
And  saw  Polygamy's  vast  jaws  a-yawning 

for  the  maiden. 
Why  not,  you  say?     Ah,  yes,  why  not, 

from  your  high  point  of  vision  ; 
But  I'm  of  an  inferior  lot,  beyond  the  light 

Elysian. 
I  tore  my  hair,  whined  like  a  whelp,  I  loved 

her  to  distraction, 
I   saw  the   danger,   knew    the    help,    yet 

trembled  at  the  action. 
At  last  I  came  to  you,  my  friend,  and  told 

my  tender  feeling  ; 
You  said,  'Your  grief  shall  have  an  end  — 

this  is  a  case  for  Sealing ; 
And  since  you  have  deserved  so  well,  and 

made  no  heinous  blunder, 
Why,  brother  Abraham,  take  the  gel,  but 

mind  you  keep  her  under. ' 
Well !  then  I  went  to  Sister  Anne,  my  in- 
most heart  unclothing, 
Told  her  my  feelings  like  a  man,  conceal- 
ing next  to  nothing, 


THE   CITY  OF  THE  SAINTS. 


375 


Explain'd  the  various  characters  of  those  I 

had  already, 
The  various  tricks  and  freaks    and  stirs 

peculiar  to  each  lady, 
And,  finally,  when  all  was  clear,  and  hope 

seem'd  to  forsake  me, 
'  There  !  it's  a  wretched  chance,  my  dear — 

you  leave  me,  or  you  take  me. ' 
Well,  Sister  Annie  look'd  at  me,  her  inmost 

heart  revealing 
(Women  are  very  weak,  you  see,  inferior, 

full  of  feeling), 
Then,    thro'   her  tears  outshining   bright, 

'  I'll  never,  never  leave  you  ! 
'  O  Abe,'  she  said,  '  my  love,  my  light,  why 

should  I  pain  or  grieve  you  ? 
I  do  not  love  the  way  of  life  you  have  so 

sadly  chosen, 
I'd  rather  be  a  single  wife  than  one  in  half 

a  dozen  ; 
But  now  you  cannot  change  your  plan, 

tho'  health  and  spirit  perish, 
And  I  shall  never  see  a  man  but  you  to  love 

and  cherish. 
Take  me,  I'm  yours,  and  O,  my  dear,  don't 

think  I  miss  your  merit, 
I'll  try  to  help  a  little  here  your  true  and 

loving  spirit.' 
'Reflect,  my  love,'  I   said,    'once  more,' 

with  bursting  heart,  half  crying, 
'  Two  of  the  girls  cut  very  sore,  and  most 

of  them  are  trying  ! ' 
And  then  that  gentle-hearted  maid  kissed 

me  and  bent  above  me, 
'  O  Abe,'  she  said,   '  don't  be  afraid, — I'll 

try  to  make  them  love  me  ! ' 

Ah  well !  I  scarcely  stopt  to  ask  myself,  till 
all  was  over, 

How  precious  tough  would  be  her  task  who 
made  those  dear  souls  love  her  ! 

But  I  was  seal'd  to  Sister  Anne,  and  straight- 
way, to  my  wonder, 

A  series  of  events  began  which  show'd  me 
all  my  blunder. 

Brother,  don't  blame  the  souls  who  erred 

thro'  their  excess  of  feeling — 
So  angrily  their  hearts  were  stirred  by  my 

last  act  of  sealing  ; 
But  in  a  moment  they  forgot  the  quarrels 

they'd  been  wrapt  in, 
And  leagued    together   in  one    lot,   with 

Tabby  for  the  Captain. 


Their  little  tiffs  were  laid  aside,  and  all 

combined  together, 
Preparing  for  the  gentle  Bride  the  blackest 

sort  of  weather. 
It  wasn't  feeling  made  them  flout    poor 

Annie  in  that  fashion, 
It  wasn't  love  turn'd  inside  out,  it  wasn't 

jealous  passion, 
It  wasn't  that  they  cared  for  me,  or  any 

other  party, 
Their  hearts    and    sentiments  were    free, 

their  appetites  were  hearty. 
But  when  the  pretty  smiling  face  came 

blossoming  and  blooming, 
Like  sunshine  in  a  shady  place  the  fam'ly 

Vault  illuming, 
It  naturally  made  them  grim  to  see  its  sunny 

colour, 
While  like  a  row  of  tapers  dim  by  daylight, 

they  grew  duller. 
She  tried  her  best  to  make  them  kind,  she 

coaxed  and  served  them  dumbly, 
She  watch'd  them  with  a  willing  mind, 

deferred  to  them  most  humbly  ; 
Tried  hard  to  pick  herself  a  friend,  but 

found  her  arts  rejected, 
And  fail'd  entirely  in  her  end,  as  one  might 

have  expected, 
But,  Brother,  tho'  I'm  loth  to  add  one  word 

to  criminate  them, 
I    think    their  conduct  was  too  bad, — it 

almost  made  me  hate  them. 

Ah  me,  the  many  nagging  ways  of  women 

are  amazing, 
Their  cleverness  solicits  praise,  their  cruelty 

is  crazing ! 
And  Sister  Annie  hadn't  been  a  single  day 

their  neighbour, 
Before  a  baby  could  have  seen  her  life  would 

be  a  labour, 
But  bless  her  little  loving  heart,  it  kept  its 

sorrow  hidden, 
And  if  the  tears  began  to  start,  suppressed 

the  same  unbidden. 
She  tried  to  smile,  and  smiled  her  best,  till 

I  thought  sorrow  silly, 
And  kept  in  her  own  garden  nest,  and  lit 

it  like  a  lily. 
O  I  should  waste  your  time  for  days  with 

talk  like  this  at  present, 
If  I  described  her  thousand  ways  of  making 

things  look  pleasant ! 


376 


SAINT  ABE  AND  HIS  SEVEN  WIVES. 


But,  blesii  you,  'twere  as  well  to  try,  when 

thunder's  at  its  dire  work, 
To  clear  the  air,  and  light  the  sky,  by 

pennyworths  of  firework. 
These  gentle  ways  to  hide  her  woe  and  make 

my  lifo  a  blessing, 
Just  made  the  after  darkness  grow  more 

gloomy  and  depressing. 
Taunts,   mocks,   and  jeers,  coldness  and 

sneers,  insult  and  trouble  daily, 
A  thousand  stabs  that  brought  the  tears,  all 

these  she  cover'd  gaily  ; 
But  when  her  fond  eyes  fell  on   me,   the 

light  of  love  to  borrow, 
And  Sister  Anne  began  to  see  I  knew  her 

secret  sorrow, 
All  of  a  sudden  like  a  mask  the  loving 

cheat  forsook  her, 
And  reckon  I  had  all  my  task,  for  illness 

overtook  her. 
She  took  to  bed,  grew  sad  and  thin,  seem'd 

like  a  spirit  flying, 
Smiled  thro'  her  tears  when  I  went  in,  but 

when  I  left  fell  crying  ; 
And  as  she  languished  in  her  bed,  as  weak 

and  wan  as  water, 
I  thought  of  what  her  father  said,  '  Take 

care  of  my  dear  daughter  ! ' 
Then  I  look'd  round  with  secret  eye  upon 

her  many  Sisters, 
And  close  at  hand  I  saw  them  lie,  ready 

for  use — like  blisters  ; 
They  seemed  with  secret  looks  of  glee,  to 

keep  their  wifely  station  ; 
They  set  their  lips  and  sneer'd  at  me,  and 

watch'd  the  situation. 

0  Brother,  I  can  scarce  express  the  agony 

of  those  moments, 

1  fear  your  perfect  saintliness,  and  dread 

your  cutting  comments  ! 
I  prayed,    I  wept,   I  moan'd,  I  cried,  I 

anguish'd  night  and  morrow, 
I  watch'd  and  waited,  sleepless-eyed,  beside 

that  bed  of  sorrow. 

At  last  I  knew,  in  those  dark  days  of  sorrow 

and  disaster, 
Mine  wasn't  soil  where  you  could  raise  a 

Saint  up,  or  a  Pastor  ; 
In  spite  of  careful  watering,    and  tilling 

night  and  morning, 
The  weeds  of  vanity  would  spring  without 

a  word  of  warning. 


I  was  and  ever  must  subsist,  labell'd  on 

every  feature, 
A  wretched  poor  Monogamist,  a  most  in- 
ferior creature — 
Just  half  a  soul,  and  half  a  mind,  a  blunder 

and  abortion, 
Not  finish'd  half  till  I  could  find  the  other 

missing  portion ! 
And  gazing  on  that  missing  part  which  I  at 

last  had  found  out, 
I  murmur'd  with  a  burning  heart,   scarce 

strong  to  get  the  sound  out, 
'  If  from  the  greedy  clutch  of  Fate  I  save 

this  chief  of  treasures, 
I  will  no  longer  hesitate,  but  take  decided 

measures ! 
A  poor  monogamist  like  me  can  not  love 

half  a  dozen, 
Better  by  far,  then,  set  them  free,  and  take 

the  Wife  I've  chosen  ! 
Their  love  for  me,  of  course,  is  small,  a 

very  shadowy  tittle, 
They  will  not  miss  my  face  at  all,  or  miss 

it  very  little. 

I  can't  undo  what  I  have  done,  by  my  for- 
lorn embraces, 
And  call  the  brightness  of  the  sun  again 

into  their  faces ; 
But  I  can  save  one  spirit  true,  confiding  and 

unthinking, 
From  slowly  curdling  to  a  shrew  or  into 

swinedom  sinking.' 
These  were  my  bitter  words  of  woe,   my 

fears  were  so  distressing, 
Not  that  I  would  reflect — O  no  ! — on  any 

living  blessing. 

Thus,  Brother,  I  resolved,  and  when  she 

rose,  still  frail  and  sighing, 
I  kept  my  word  like  better  men,  and  bolted, 

— and  I'm  flying. 
Into  oblivion  I  haste,  and  leave  the  world 

behind  me, 
Afar  unto  the  starless  waste,  where  not  a 

soul  shall  find  me. 

I  send  my  love,  and  Sister  Anne  joins  cor- 
dially, agreeing 
I  never  was  the  sort  of  man  for  your  high 

state  of  being  ; 
Such  as  I  am,  she  takes  me,  though ;  and 

after  years  of  trying, 
From  Eden  hand  in  hand  we  go,  like  our 

first  parents  flying  ; 


CITY  OF   THE  SAINTS— FARM  IN  THE    VALLEY. 


377 


And  like  the  bright  sword  that  did  chase 

the  first  of  sires  and  mothers, 
Shines  dear  Tabitha's  flaming  face,    sur- 
rounded by  the  others : 
Shining  it  threatens  there  on  high,  above 

the  gates  of  Heaven, 
And  faster  at  the  sight  we  fly,   in  naked 

shame,  forth-driven. 
Nothing  of  all  my  worldly  store   I   take, 

'twould  be  improper, 
I  go  a  pilgrim,  strong  and  poor,  without  a 

single  copper. 
Unto  my  Widows  I  outreach  my  property 

completely. 
There's  modest  competence  for  each,  if  it 

is  managed  neatly. 
That,    Brother,    is  a  labour   left  to  your 

sagacious  keeping  ; — 
Comfort  them,   comfort   the    bereft !    I'm 

good  as  dead  and  sleeping  ! 
A  fallen  star,  a  shooting  light,  a  portent 

and  an  omen, 
A  moment  passing  on  the  sight,  thereafter 

seen  by  no  men  ! 
I  go,  with  backward-looking  face,  and  spirit 

rent  asunder. 
O  may  you  prosper  in  your  place,  for  you" re 

a  shining  wonder ! 
So  strong,  so  sweet,  so  mild,  so  good  ! — by 

Heaven's  dispensation, 
Made  Husband  to  a  multitude  and  Father 

to  a  nation! 
May  all  the  saintly  life  ensures  increase 

and  make  you  stronger  ! 
Humbly  and  penitently  yours, 

A.  CLEWSON  (Saint  no  longer] 


THE  FARM  IN  THE  VALLEY- 
SUNSET. 
(1871.) 

STILL  the  saintly  City  stands, 
Wondrous  work  of  busy  hands  ; 
Still  the  lonely  City  thrives, 
Rich  in  worldly  goods  and  wives, 
And  with  thrust-out  jaw  and  set 
Teeth,  the  Yankee  threatens  yet- 
Half  admiring  and  half  riled, 
Oft  by  bigger  schemes  beguiled, 
Turning  off  his  curious  stare 
To  communities  elsewhere, 


Always  with  unquiet  eye 
Watching  Utah  on  the  sly. 

Long  the  City  of  the  Plain 
Left  its  image  on  my  brain  : 
White  kiosks  and  gardens  bright 
Rising  in  a  golden  light ; 
Busy  figures  everywhere 
Bustling  bee-like  in  the  glare  ; 
And  from  dovecotes  in  green  places, 
Peep'd  out  weary  women's  faces, 
Flushing  faint  to  a  thin  cry 
From  the  nursery  hard  by. 
And  the  City  in  my  thought 
Slept  fantastically  wrought, 
Till  the  whole  began  to  seem 
Like  a  curious  Eastern  dream, 
Like  the  pictures  strange  we  scan 
In  the  tales  Arabian  : 
Tales  of  magic  art  and  sleight, 
Cities  rising  in  a  night, 
And  of  women  richly  clad, 
Dark-eyed,  melancholy,  sad, 
Ever  with  a  glance  uncertain, 
Trembling  at  the  purple  curtain, 
Lest  behind  the  black  slave  stand 
With  the  bowstring  in  his  hand  ; — 
Happy  tales,  within  whose  heart 
Founts  of  weeping  eyes  upstart, 
Told,  to  save  her  pretty  head, 
By  Scheherazad  in  bed  ! 

All  had  faded  and  grown  faint, 
Save  the  figure  of  the  Saint 
Who  that  memorable  night 
Left  the  Children  of  the  Light, 
Flying  o'er  the  lonely  plain 
From  his  lofty  sphere  of  pain 
Oft  his  gentle  face  would  flit 
O'er  my  mind  and  puzzle  it, 
Ever  waking  up  meanwhile 
Something  of  a  merry  smile, 
Whose  quick  light  illumined  me 
During  many  a  reverie, 
When  I  puffed  my  weed  alone. 

Faint  and  strange  the  face  had  grown, 
Tho'  for  five  long  years  or  so 
I  had  watched  it  come  and  go, 
When,  on  busy  thoughts  intent, 
I  into  New  England  went, 
And  one  evening,  riding  slow 
By  a  River  that  I  know, 


37* 


SAINT  ABE  AND  HIS  SEVEN  WIVES. 


(Gentle  stream  !     I  hide  thy  name, 

Far  too  modest  thou  for  fame  !) 

I  beheld  the  landscape  swim 

In  the  autumn  hazes  dim, 

And  from  out  the  neighbouring  dales 

Heard  the  thumping  of  the  flails. 

All  was  hush'd ;  afar  away 
(As  a  novelist  would  say) 
Sank  the  mighty  orb  of  day, 
Staring  with  a  hazy  glow 
On  the  purple  plain  below, 
Where  (like  burning  embers  shed 
From  the  sunset's  glowing  bed, 
Dying  out  or  burning  bright, 
Every  leaf  a  blaze  of  light) 
Ran  the  maple  swamps  ablaze  ; 
Everywhere  amid  the  haze, 
Floating  strangely  in  the  air, 
Farms  and  homesteads  gather' d  fair  \ 
And  the  River  rippled  slow, 
Thro'  the  marshes  green  and  low, 
Spreading  oft  as  smooth  as  glass 
As  it  fringed  the  meadow  grass, 
Making  'mong  the  misty  fields 
Pools  like  golden  gleaming  shields. 

Thus  I  walked  my  steed  along, 
Humming  a  low  scrap  of  song, 
Watching  with  an  idle  eye 
White  clouds  in  the  dreamy  sky 
Sailing  with  me  in  slow  pomp. 
In  the  bright  flush  of  the  swamp, 
While  his  dogs  bark'd  in  the  wood, 
Gun  in  hand  the  sportsman  stood  ; 
And  beside  me,  wading  deep, 
Stood  the  angler  half  asleep, 
Figure  black  against  the  gleam 
Of  the  bright  pools  of  the  stream  ; 
Now  and  then  a  wherry  brown 
With  the  current  drifted  down 
Sunset-ward,  and  as  it  went, 
Made  an  oar-splash  indolent ; 
While  with  solitary  sound, 
Deepening  the  silence  round, 
In  a  voice  of  mystery 
Faintly  cried  the  chickadee. 

Suddenly  the  River's  arm 
Rounded,  and  a  lonely  Farm 
Stood  before  me  blazing  red 
To  the  bright  blaze  overhead  ; 
In  the  homesteads  at  its  side, 


Cattle  lowed  and  voices  cried, 
And  frorj  out  the  shadows  dark 
Came  a  mastiff's  measured  bark. 
Fair  and  fat  stood  the  abode 
On  the  path  by  which  I  rode, 
And  a  mighty  orchard,  strown 
Still  with  apple-leaves  wind-blown, 
Raised  its  branches  gnarl'd  and  bare 
Black  against  the  sunset  air, 
And  with  greensward  deep  and  dim, 
Wander'd  to  the  River's  brim. 

Close  beside  the  orchard  walk 
Linger' d  one  in  quiet  talk 
With  a  man  in  workman's  gear. 
As  my  horse's  feet  drew  near, 
The  labourer  nodded  rough  'good-day, 
Turned  his  back  and  loung'd  away. 
Then  the  first,  a  plump  and  fat 
Yeoman  in  a  broad  straw  hat, 
Stood  alone  in  thought  intent, 
Watching  while  the  other  went, 
And  amid  the  sunlight  red 
Paused,  with  hand  held  to  his  head. 

In  a  moment,  like  a  word 
Long  forgotten  until  heard, 
Like  a  buried  sentiment 
Born  again  to  some  stray  scent, 
Like  a  sound  to  which  the  brain 
Gives  familiar  refrain, 
Something  in  the  gesture  brought 
Things  forgotten  to  my  thought  ; 
Memory,  as  I  watched  the  sight, 
Flashed  from  eager  light  to  light. 
Remember'd  and  remember'd  not, 
Half  familiar,  half  forgot, 
Stood  the  figure,  till  at  last, 
Bending  eyes  on  his,  I  passed, 
Gazed  again,  as  loth  to  go, 
Drew  the  rein,  stopt  short,  and  so 
Rested,  looking  back  ;  when  he, 
The  object  of  my  scrutiny, 
Smiled  and  nodded,  saying,  '  Yes  ! 
Stare  your  fill,  young  man  !     I  guess 
You'll  know  me  if  we  meet  again  ! ' 

In  a  moment  all  my  brain 

Was  illumined  at  the  tone, 

All  was  vivid  that  had  grown 

Faint  and  dim,  and  straight  I  knew  him, 

Holding  out  my  hand  unto  him, 

Smiled,  and  called  him  by  his  name. 


THE  FARM  IN  THE    VALLEY— SUNSET. 


379 


Wondering,  hearing  me  exclaim, 
Abraham  Clewson  (for  'twas  he) 
Came  more  close  and  gazed  at  me. 
As  he  gazed,  a  merry  grin 
Brighten'd  down  from  eyes  to  chin  : 
In  a  moment  he,  too,  knew  me, 
Reaching  out  his  hand  unto  me, 
Crying  '  Track'd,  by  all  that's  blue  ! 
Who'd  have  thought  of  seeing  you  ? ' 

Then,  in  double  quicker  time 
Than  it  takes  to  make  the  rhyme, 
Abe,  with  face  of  welcome  bright, 
Made  me  from  my  steed  alight ; 
Call'd  a  boy,  and  bade  him  lead 
The  beast  away  to  bed  and  feed  ; 
And,  with  hand  upon  my  arm, 
Led  me  off  into  the  Farm, 
Where,  amid  a  dwelling-place 
Fresh  and  bright  as  her  own  face, 
With  a  gleam  of  shining  ware 
For  a  background  everywhere, 
Free  as  any  summer  breeze, 
With  a  bunch  of  huswife's  keys 
At  her  girdle,  sweet  and  mild  . 
Sister  Annie  blush'd  and  smiled, — • 
While  two  tiny  laughing  girls, 
Peeping  at  me  through  their  curls, 
Hid  their  sweet  shamefacedness 
In  the  skirts  of  Annie's  dress. 

That  same  night  the  Saint  and  I 

Sat  and  talked  of  times  gone  by, 

Smoked  our  pipes  and  drank  our  grog 

By  the  slowly  smouldering  log, 

While  the  clock's  hand  slowly  crept 

To  midnight,  and  the  household  slept. 

'  Happy  ? '  Abe  said  with  a  smile, 

1  Yes,  in  my  inferior  style, 

Meek  and  humble,  not  like  them 

In  the  New  Jerusalem.' 

Here  his  hand,  as  if  astray, 

For  a  moment  found  its  way 

To  his  forehead,  as  he  said, 

'  Reckon  they  believe  I'm  dead  ! 

Ah,  that  life  of  sanctity 

Never  was  the  life  for  me. 

Couldn't  stand  it  wet  nor  dry, 

Hated  to  see  women  cry  ; 

Couldn't  bear  to  be  the  cause 

Of  tiffs  and  squalls  and  endless  jaws  ; 

Always  felt  amid  the  stir 

Jest  a  whited  sepulchre  ; 


And  I  did  the  best  I  could 
When  I  ran  away  for  good. 
Yet,  for  many  a  night,  you  know 
(Annie,  too,  would  tell  you  so), 
Couldn't  sleep  a  single  wink, 
Couldn't  eat,  and  couldn't  drink, 
Being  kind  of  conscience-cleft 
For  those  poor  creatures  I  had  left. 
Not  till  I  got  news  from  there, 
And  I  found  their  fate  was  fair, 
Could  I  set  to  work,  or  find 
Any  comfort  in  my  mind. 
Well  (here  Abe  smiled  quietly), 
Guess  they  didn't  groan  for  me ! 
Fanny  and  Amelia  got 
Sealed  to  Brigham  on  the  spot ; 
Emmy  soon  consoled  herself 
In  the  a-rms  of  Brother  Delf ; 
And  poor  Mary  one  fine  day 
Packed  her  traps  and  tript  away 
Down  to  Fresco  with  Fred  Bates, 
A  young  player  from  the  States  ; 
While  Sarah,  'twas  the  wisest  plan, 
Pick'd  herself  a  single  man — 
A  young  joiner  fresh  come  down 
Out  of  Texas  to  the  town — 
And  he  took  her  with  her  baby, 
And  they're  doing  well  as  maybe.' 

Here  the  Saint  with  quiet  smile, 
Sipping  at  his  grog  the  while, 
Paused  as  if  his  tale  was  o'er, 
Held  his  tongue  and  said  no  more. 
4  Good,'  I  said,  '  but  have  you  done? 
You  have  spoke  of  all  save  one— 
All  your  Widows,  so  bereft, 
Are  most  comfortably  left, 
But  of  one  alone  you  said 
Nothing.     Is  the  lady  dead!* 

Then  the  good  man's  features  broke 

Into  brightness  as  I  spoke, 

And  with  loud  guffaw  cried  he, 

'  What,  Tabitha?    Dead  !     Not  she. 

All  alone  and  doing  splendid — 

Jest  you  guess,  now,  how  she's  ended! 

Give  it  up  ?    This  very  week 

I  heard  she's  at  Oneida  Creek, 

All  alone  and  doing  hearty, 

Down  with  Brother  Noyes's  party 

Tried  the  Shakers  first,  they  say, 

Tired  of  them  and  went  away, 

Testing  with  a  deal  of  bother 

This  community  and  t'other. 


38o 


SAINT  ABE  AND  HIS  SEVEN   WIVES. 


Till  she  to  Oneida  flitted, 
And  with  trouble  got  admitted. 
Bless  you,  she's  a  shining  lamp, 
Tho'  I  used  her  like  a  scamp, 
And  she's  great  in  exposition 
Of  the  Free  Love  folk's  condition, 
Vowing,  tho'  she  found  it  late, 
Tis  the  only  happy  state.  .  .  . 

'As  for  me,'  added  the  speaker, 
'  I'm  lower  in  the  scale,  and  weaker 
Polygamy's  beyond  my  merits, 
Shakerism  wears  the  spirits, 
And  as  for  Free  Love,  why  you  see 
(Here  the  Saint  wink'd  wickedly) 
With  my  whim  it  might  have  hung 
Once,  when  I  was  spry  and  young  ; 


But  poor  Annie's  love  alone 
Keeps  my  mind  in  proper  tone, 
And  tho'  my  spirit  mayn't  be  strong. 
I'm  lively — as  the  day  is  long.' 

As  he  spoke,  with  half  a  yawn, 
Half  a  smile,  I  saw  the  dawn 
Creeping  faint  into  the  gloom 
Of  the  quickly-chilling  room. 
On  the  hearth  the  wood-log  lay, 
With  one  last  expiring  ray  ; 
Draining  off  his  glass  of  grog, 
Clewson  rose  and  kick'd  the  log  ; 
As  it  tumbled  into  ashes, 
Watched  the  last  expiring  flashes, 
Gave  another  yawn  and  said, 
1  Well  1  I  guess  it's  time  for  bed  ! ' 


White  Rose  and  Red, 


A   LOVE  STORY. 


DEDICATION. 

To  WALT  WHITMAN  and  ALEXANDER  GARDINER,  with  all  friends  in  Washington, 
I  dedicate  this  Poem. 


INVOCATION. 

KNOW'ST  THOU  THE  LAND?' 


KNOW'ST  thou  the  Land,  where  tte  lian- 

flower 

Burgeons  the  trapper's  forest  bower, 
Where  o'er  his  head  the  acacia  sweet 
bhaketh  her  scented  locks  in  the  heat, 
Where  the  hang-bird  swings  to  a  blossom- 
cloud, 

And  the  bobolink  sings  merry  and  loud  ? 
Know'st  thou  the  Land? 

O  there !  O  there, 

Might  I  with  thee,  O  friend  of  my  heart, 
repair  1 

ir. 

Know'st  thou  the  Land  where  the  golden 

Day 
Flowers  into  glory  and  glows  away, 


While  the  Night  springs  up,  as  an  Indian  girl 
Clad  in  purple  and  hung  with  pearl ! 
And  the  white  Moon's  heaven  rolls  apart, 
Like  a  bell-shaped  flower  with  a  golden 

heart,— 
Know'st  thou  the  Land  ? 

O  there  !  O  there, 
Might  I  with  thee,  O  Maid  of  my  Soul, 

repair ! 

in. 

Know'st  thou  the  Land  where  the  woods 

are  free, 

And  the  prairie  rolls  as  a  mighty  sea, 
And  over  its  waves  the  sunbeams  shine, 
While  on  its  misty  horizon-line 
Dark  and  dim  the  buffaloes  stand, 
And  the  hunter  is  gliding  gun  in  hand  ? 
Know'st  thou  it  well  ? 

O  there !  O  there, 
Might  I,  with  those  whose  Souls  are  free, 

repair  ! 


INVOCATION— THE   CAPTURE   OF  EUREKA   HART.        381 


Know'st  thou  the  Land  where  the  sun-birds 

song 

Filleth  the  forest  all  day  long, 
Where  all  is  music  and  mirth  and  bloom, 
Where  the  cedar  sprinkles  a  soft  perfume, 
Where  life  is  gay  as  a  glancing  stream, 
And  all  things  answer  the  Poet's  dream? 
Know'st  thou  the  Land  ? 

O  there  !  O  there, 
Might   I,  with  him  who  loves    my  lays, 

repair ! 

v. 
Know'st  thou  the  Land  where  the  swampy 

brakes 

Are  full  of  the  nests  of  the  rattlesnakes, 
Where  round  old  Grizzly  the   wild   bees 

hum, 

While  squatting  he  sucks  at  their  honey- 
comb, 
Where  crocodiles  crouch  and  the  wild  cat 

springs, 

And  the  mildest  ills  are  mosquito  stings  ? 
Know'st  thou  the  Land? 

O  there !  O  there, 
Might    I,   with    adverse    Critics,    straight 

repair ! 

VI. 

Know'st  thou  the  Land  where  wind  and 

sun 

Smile  on  all  races  of  men— save  one : 
Where  (strange  and  wild  as  a  sunset  proud 
Streak' d  with  the  bars  of  a  thunder-cloud) 
Alone  and  silent  the  Red  Man  lies, 
Sees  the  cold  stars  coming,  and  sinks,  and 

dies? 
Know'st  thou  the  Land  ? 

O  there  !  O  there, 
Might  I  to  wet  his  poor  parch'd  lips  repair  ! 

VII. 

Lock  up  thy  gold,  and  take  thy  flight 
To  the  mighty  Land  of  the  red  and  white  ; 
A  ditty  I  love  I  would  have  thee  hear, 
While  daylight  dies,  and  the  Night  comes 

near 

With  her  black  feet  wet  from  the  western  sea, 
And  the  Red  Man  dies,  with  his  eyes  on 

thee! 

Fast  to  that  Land,  ere  his  last  footprints  there 
Are  beaten  down  by  alien  feet,  repair  ! 


PART  I. 

THE   CAPTURE   OF  EUREKA 
HART. 


NATURA  NATURANS. 
DAWN  breaking.    Thro'  his  dew-veil  smiles 

the  sun, 

And  under  him  doth  run 
On  the  green  grass  and  in  the  forest  brake 

Bright  beast  and  speckled  snake  ; 
Birds  on  the  bough  and  insects  in  the  ray 
Gladden  ;  and  it  is  day. 

What  is  this  lying  on  the  thymy  steep, 

Where  yellow  bees  hum  deep, 
And  the  rich  air  is  warm  as  living  breath  ? 

What  soft  shape  slumbereth 
Naked  and  dark,  and  glows  in  a  green  nest, 

Low-breathing  in  bright  rest? 
Is  it  the  spotted  panther,  lying  there 

Lissome  and  light  and  fair  ? 
Is  it  the  snake,  with  glittering  skin  coil'd 
round 

And  gleaming  on  the  ground  ? 
Is  it  some  wondrous  bird  whose  eyrie  lies 

Between  the  earth  and  skies  ? 
'Tis  none  of  these,  but  something  stranger 

far- 
Strange  as  a  fallen  star  ! 
A  mortal  birth,  a  marvel  heavenly-eyed, 

With  dark  pink  breast  and  side  ! 
And  as  she  lies  the  wild  deer  comes  most 
meek 

To  smell  her  scented  cheek, 
And  creeps  away  ;  the  yeanling  ounce  lies 
near, 

And  watches  with  no  fear  ; 
The  serpent  rustles  past,  with  touch  as  light 

As  rose-leaves,  rippling  bright 
Into  the  grass  beyond;  while  yonder,  on  high, 

A  black  speck  in  the  sky, 
The  crested  eagle  hovers,  with  sharp  sight 

Facing  the  flood  of  light. 

What  living  shape  is  this  who  sleeping  lies  , 
Watch' d  by  all  wondering  eyes 

Of  beast  and  speckled  snake  and  flying  bird? 
Softly  she  sleeps,  unstirr'd 

By  wind  or  sun  ;  and  since  she  first  fell  there 
Her  raven  locks  of  hair 


382 


WHITE  ROSE  AND  RED. 


Have  bosen'd,    shaken   round    her   in    a 
shower, 

Whence,  like  a  poppy  flower 
With  dark  leaves  and  a  tongue  to  brightness 
tipt, 

She  lies  vermilion-lipt. 
Bare  to  the  waist,  her  head  upon  her  arm, 

Coil'd  on  a  couch  most  warm 
Of  balsam  and  of  hemlock,  whose  soft  scent 

With  her  warm  breath  is  blent. 
Around  her  brow  a  circlet  of  pure  gold. 

With  antique  letters  scroll'd, 
Burns  in  the  sun-ray,  and  with  gold  also 

Her  wrists  and  ankles  glow. 
Around  her  neck  the  threaded  wild  cat's 
teeth 

Hang  white  as  pearl ;  beneath 
Her  bosoms  heave,  and  in  the  space  between, 

Duskly  tattoo'd,  is  seen 
A  figure  small  as  of  a  pine-bark  brand 

Held  blazing  in  a  hand. 
Her  skirt  of  azure,  wrought  with  braid  and 
thread 

In  quaint  signs  yellow  and  red, 
Scarce  reaches  to  her  dark  and  dim  pled  knee, 

Leaving  it  bare  and  free. 
Below,  mocassins  red  as  blood  are  wound, 

With  gold  and  purple  bound  ; — 
So  that  red-footed  like  the  stork  she  lies, 

With  softly  shrouded  eyes, 
Whose  brightness  seems  with  heavy  lustrous 
dew 

To  pierce  the  dark  lids  thro'. 
Her  eyelids  closed,  her  poppied  lips  apart, 

And  her  quick  eager  heart 
Stirring  her  warm  frame,  as  a  bird  unseen 

Stirs  the  warm  lilac-sheen, 
She  slumbers, — and  of  all  beneath  the  skies 

Seemeth  the  last  to  rise. 

She  stirs— she  wakens — now,  O  birds,  sing 

loud 

Under  the  golden  cloud  ! 
She  stirs— she  wakens— now,  O  wild  beast, 

spring, 

Blooms  grow,  breeze  blow,  birds  sing  ! 
She  wakens  in  her  nest  and  looks  around, 
'    And  listens  to  the  sound  ; 
Her  eyelids  blink  against  the  heavens'  bright 

beam, 

Still  dim  and  dark  with  dream, 
Her   breathing  quickens,    and   her  cheek 
gleams  red, 


And  round  her  shining  head 
Glossy  her  black  hair  glistens.     Now  she 

stands, 

And  with  her  little  hands 
Shades  her  soft  orbs  and  upward  at  the  sky 

She  gazeth  quietly  ; 
Then  at  one  bound  springs  with  a  sudden 

song 
The  forest-track  along. 

Thro'  the  transparent  roof  of  twining  leaves, 

Where  the  deep  sunlight  weaves 
Threads    like    a    spider's-web    of    silvern 

white, 

Faint  falls  the  dreamy  light 
Down    the    gray  bolls    and  boughs    that 

intervene, 

On  to  the  carpet  green 
Prinkt  with  all  wondrous  flowers,  on  emerald 

brakes 

Where  the  still  speckled  snakes 
Crawl    shaded  ;    and    above    the    shaded 

ground, 

Amid  the  deep-sea  sound 
Of  the  high  branches,  bright  birds  scream 

and  fly 

And  chattering  parrots  cry  ; 
And  everywhere  beneath  them  in  the  bowers 

Float  things  like  living  flowers, 
Hovering  and  settling ;  and  here  and  there 

The  blue  gleams  deep  and  fair 
Thro'  the  high  parted  boughs,  while  serpent- 
bright 

Slips  thro'  the  golden  light, 
Startling  the  cool  deep  shades  that  brood 

around, 

And  floating  to  the  ground, 
With  multitudinous  living  motes  at  play 
Like  dust  in  the  rich  ray. 

Hither  for  shelter  from  the  burning  sun 

Hnth  stolen  the  beauteous  one, 
And  thro'  the  ferns  and  flowers  she  runs, 

and  plucks 

Berries  blue-black,  and  sucks 
The  fallen  orange.     Where  the  sunbeams 

blink 

She  lieth  down  to  drink 
Out  of  the  deep  pool,  and  her  image  sweet 

Floats  dim  below  her  feet, 
Up-peering    thro'    the    lilies    yellow   and 

white 
And  green  leaves  where  the  bright 


THE   CAPTURE   OF  EUREKA   HART. 


3S3 


Great  Dragon-fly  doth  pause.  With  burning 
breath 

She  looks  and  gladdeneth. 
She  holds  her  hands,  the  shape  holds  out 
hands  too ; 

She  stoops  more  near  to  view, 
And  it  too  stoopeth  looking  wild  and  sly  ; 

Whereat,  with  merry  cry, 
She  staretth  up,  and  fluttering  onward  flies 

With  gladness  in  her  eyes. 

But  who  is  this  who  all  alone  lies  deep 

In  heavy-lidded  sleep  ? 
A  dark  smile  hovering  on  his  bearded  l;ps, 

His  hunter's  gun  he  grips, 
And  snores  aloud  where  snakes  and  lizards 
run, 

His  mighty  limbs  i'  the  sun 
And  his  fair  face  within  the  shadow.     See  ! 

His  breath  comes  heavily 
Like  one's  tired  out  with  toil ;  and  when  in 
fear 

The  Indian  maid  comes  near, 
And  bendeth  over  him  most  wondering, 

The  bright  birds  scream  and  sing, 
The  motes  are  madder  in  the  ray,  the  snake 

Glides  luminous  in  the  brake, 
The  sunlight  flashes  fiery  overhead, 

The  wood-cat  with  eyes  red 
Crawleth  close  by,  with  her  lithe  crimson 
tongue 

Licking  her  clumsy  young, 
And,  deep  within  the  open  prairie  nigh, 

Hawks  swoop  and  struck  birds  cry  ! 

Dark  maiden,  what  is  he  thou  lookest  on? 

O  ask  not,  but  begone  ! 
Go  !  for  his  eyes  are  blue,  his  skin  is  white, 

And  giant-like  his  height. 
>  To  him  thou  wouldst  appear  a  tiny  thing, 

Some  small  bird  on  the  wing, 
Some  small  deer  to  be  kill'd  ere  it  could  fly, 

Or  to  be  tamed,  and  die  ! — 
O  look  not,  look  not,  in  the  hunter's  face, 

Thou  maid  of  the  red  race, 
He  is  a  tame  thing,  thou  art  weak  and  wild, 

Thou  lovely  forest-child  ! 
How  should  the  deer  by  the  great   deer- 
hound  walk, 

The  wood-dove  seek  the  hawk  ? — 
Away  !  away  !  lest  he  should  wake  from  rest, 

Fly,  sun-bird,  to  thy  nest ! 


Why  doth  she  start,  and  backward  softly 
creep  ? 

He  stirreth  in  his  sleep- 
Why  doth  she  steal  away  with  wondering 
eye=;? 

He  stretches  limbs,  and  sighs. 
Peace  !  she  hath  fled — and  he  is  all  alone, 

While,  with  a  yawn  and  groan, 
The  man  sits  up,  rubs  eyelids,  grips  his  gun, 

Stares  heavenward  at  the  sun, 
And  cries  aloud,  stretching  himself  anew  : 

'  Broad  day, — by  all  that's  blue  ! ' 

II. 

EUREKA. 

ON  the  shores  of  the  Atlantic, 
Where  the  surge  rolls  fierce  and  frantic, 
Where  the  mad  winds  cry  and  wrestle 
With  each  frail  and  bird-like  vessel, — 
Down  in  Maine,  where  human  creatures 
Are  amphibious  in  their  natures, 
And  the  babies,  sons  or  daughteis, 
Float  like  fishes  in  the  waters, — 
Down  in  Maine,  by  the  Atlantic, 
Grew  the  Harts,  of  race  gigantic, 
And  the  tallest  and  the  strongest 
Was  Eureka  Hart,  the  youngest. 

Like  a  bear-cub  as  a  baby, 

Rough,  and  rear'd  as  roughly  as  may  be, 

He  had  rudely  grown  and  thriven 

Till,  a  giant,  six  foot  seven, 

Bold  and  ready  for  all  comers, 

He  had  reach'd  full  thirty  summers. 

All  his  brethren,  thrifty  farmers, 

Had  espoused  their  rural  charmers, 

Settling  down  once  and  for  ever 

By  the  Muskeosquash  River  : 

Thrifty  men,  devout  believers, 

Of  the  tribe  of  human  beavers  \ 

Life  to  them,  with  years  increasing, 

Was  an  instinct  never-ceasing 

To  build  dwellings  multifarious 

In  the  fashion  called  gregarious, 

To  be  honest  in  their  station, 

And  increase  the  population 

Of  the  beavers  !     They,  moreover, 

Tho"  their  days  were  cast  in  clover, 

Had  the  instinct  of  secreting  ; 

Toiling  hard  while  time  was  fleeting, 

To  lay  by  in  secret  places, 

[Like  the  bee  and  squirrel  races,] 


334 


WHITE  ROSE  AND  RED. 


Quiet  stores  of  yellow  money, 
[Which  is  human  nuts  and  honey.] 

Tho'  no  flowers  of  dazzling  beauty 
In  their  ploughshare  line  of  duty 
Rose  and  bloom'd,  still,  rural  daisies, 
Such  as  every  village  raises, 
From  the  thin  soil  of  their  spirits 
Grew  and  throve.     Their  gentle  merits, 
Free  of  any  gleam  of  passion, 
Flower'd  in  an  instructive  fashion. 
Quite  convinced  that  life  was  fleeting 
Every  week  they  went  to  meeting, 
Met  and  prayed  to  God  in  dozens, 
Uncles,  nephews,  nieces,  cousins, 
Joining  there  in  adoration, 
All  the  beaver  population  ! 
From  this  family  one  creature, 
Taller  and  more  fair  of  feature, 
firr'd  and  wander'd,  slightly  lacking 
In  the  building,  breeding,  packing, 
Tribal-instinct  ;  and  would  never 
Settle  down  by  wood  or  river, 
Build  a  house  or  take  a  woman 
In  the  pleasant  fashion  common 
To  his  race  ;  evincing  rather 
Traces  of  some  fiercer  father, 
Panther-like,  to  hunting  given 
In  the  eye  of  the  blue  heaven  ! 
When  beneath  the  mother's  bosom 
His  great  life  began  to  blossom, 
Haply  round  her  winds  were  crying, 
O'er  her  head  the  white  clouds  flying, 
At  her  feet  the  wild  waves  flowing, 
All  things  moving,  coming,  going, 
And  the  motion  and  vibration 
Reach'd  the  thing  in  embryoation, 
On  its  unborn  soul  conferring 
Endless  impulse  to  be  stirring, — 
To  be  ever  wandering,  racing, 
Bird-like,  wave-like,  chased  or  chasing  ! 
Born  beside  the  stormy  ocean, 
'Twas  the  giant's  earliest  notion 
To  go  roaming  on  the  billow, 
With  a  damp  plank  for  a  pillow. 
In  his  youth  he  went  as  sailor 
With  the  skipper  of  a  whaler  ; 
But  in  later  life  he  better 
Loved  to  feel  no  sort  of  fetter, 
All  his  own  free  pathway  mapping 
In  the  forest, — hunting,  trapping. 
By  great  rivers,  thro'  vast  valleys, 
As  thro'  some  enchanted  palace 


Ever  bright  and  ever  changing, 
Many  years  he  went  a-ranging, — 
Free  as  any  wave,  and  only 
Lonely  as  a  cloud  is  lonely, 
Floating  in  a  void,  surveying 
Endless  tracts  for  endless  straying. 

Pause  a  minute  and  regard  him  ! 
Years  of  hardships  have  not  marr'd  him. 
Limbs  made  perfect,  iron-solder' d, 
Narrow-hipp'd  and  mighty-shoulder'd, 
Whisker'd,  bearded,  strong  and  stately, 
With  a  smile  that  lurks  sedately 
In  still  eyes  of  a  cold  azure, 
Never  lighting  to  sheer  pleasure, 
Stands  he  there,  'mid  the  green  trees 
Like  the  Greek  god,  Herakles. 

Stay,  nor  let  the  bright  allusion 
Lead  your  spirit  to  confusion. 
Tho'  a  wanderer,  and  a  creature 
Almost  as  a  god  in  feature, 
This  man's  nature  was  as  surely 
Soulless  and  instinctive  purely, 
As  the  natures  of  those  others, 
His  sedater  beaver-brothers  ; 
Nothing  brilliant,  bright,  or  frantic, 
Nothing  maidens  style  romantic, 
Flash' d  his  slow  brain  morn  or  night 
Into  spiritual  light ! 

As  waves  run,  and  as  clouds  wander, 
With  small  power  to  feel  or  ponder, 
Roam'd  this  thing  in  human  clothing, 
Intellectually— nothing ! 
Further  in  his  soul  receding, 
Certain  signs  of  beaver-breeding 
Kept  his  homely  wits  in  see-saw  ; 
Part  was  Jacob,  part  was  Esau  ; 
No  revolter  ;  a  believer 
In  the  dull  creed  of  the  beaver  ; 
Strictly  moral ;  seeing  beauty 
In  the  ploughshare  line  of  duty  ; 
Loving  nature  as  beasts  love  it, 
Eating,  drinking,  tasting  of  it, 
With  no  wild  poetic  gleaming, 
Seldom  shaping,  never  dreaming  ; 
Beaver  with  a  wandering  craze, 
Walked  Eureka  in  God's  ways. 

Now  ye  know  him,  now  ye  see  him  ; 
Nought  from  beaver-blood  can  free  him  ; 
Yet  stand  by  and  shrewdly  con  him, 
While  a  wild  light  strikes  upon  him, 


THE   CAPTURE   OF  EUREKA   HART. 


385 


While  a  gleam  of  glory  finds  him, 
Flashes  in  his  eyes  and  blinds  him, 
Shapes  his  mind  to  its  full  measure, 
Raising  him,  in  one  mad  pleasure, 
'Spite  the  duller  brain's  control, 
To  the  stature  of  a  SOUL  I 

in. 
THE  CAPTURE. 

The  wild  wood  rings,  the  wild  wood  gleams, 
The  wild  wood  laughs  with  echoes  gay  ; 
Thro'  its  green  heart  a  bright  beck  streams, 
Sparkling  like  gold  in  the  sun's  beams, 
But  creeping,  like  a  silvern  ray, 
Where  hanging  boughs  make  dim  the  day. 
Hush'd,  hot,  and  Eden-like  all  seems, 
And  onward  thro'  the  place  of  dreams 
Eureka  Hart  doth  stray. 

Strong,  broad-awake,  and  happy-eyed, 
With  the  loose  tangled  light  for  guide, 
He  wanders,  and  at  times  doth  pass 
Thro'  open  glades  of  gleaming  grass, 
With  spiderwort  and  larkspur  spread, 
And  great  anemones  blood-red  ; 
On  every  side  the  forest  closes, 

The  myriad  trees  are  interlaced, 
Starr' d  with  the  white  magnolia  roses, 

And  by  the  purple  vines  embraced. 
Beneath  on  every  pathway  shine 
The  fallen  needles  of  the  pine  ; 
Around  are  dusky  scented  bowers, 
Bridged  with  the  glorious  lian-flowers. 
Above,  far  up  thro'  the  green  trees, 

The  palm  thrusts  out  its  fan  of  green, 
Which  softly  stirs  in  a  soft  breeze, 

Far  up  against  the  heavenly  sheen. 

And  all  beneath  the  topmost  palm 
Is  sultry  shade  and  air  of  balm, 
Where,  shaded  from  the  burning  rays, 
Scream  choirs  of  parroquets  and  jays  ; 
Where  in  the  dusk  of  dream  is  heard 
The  shrill  cry  of  the  echo-bird  ; 
And  on  the  grass,  as  thick  as  bees, 

Run  mocking-birds  and  wood- doves  small 
Pecking  the  blood-red  strawberries, 

And  fruits  that  from  the  branches  fall ; 
All  rising  up  with  gleam  and  cry, 
When  the  bright  snake  glides  hissing  by, 
Springs  from  the  grass,  and,  swift  as  light, 
Slips  after  the  chameleons  bright 


From  bough  to  bough,  and  here  and  there 
Pauses  and  hangs  in  the  green  air, 
Festoon'd  in  many  a  glistening  fold, 
Like  some  loose  chain  of  gems  and  gold. 

Smoke  from  a  mortal  pipe  is  blent 
With  cedar  and  acacia  scent : 
Phlegmatically  relishing, 

Eureka  smokes  ;  from  every  tree 
The  wood-doves  brood,  the  sun-birds  sing, 
The  forest  doth  salute  its  King, 

The  monarch  Man,— but  what  cares  he  ? 
His  eyes  are  dull,  his  soul  in  vain 
Hears  the  strange  tongues  of  his  domain, 
No  echo  comes  to  the  soft  strain 
From  the  dull  cavern  of  his  brain. 

But  hark !  what  quick  and  sparkling  cry 
Darts  like  a  fountain  to  the  sky  ? 
How,  human  voices  !  strangely  clear, 
They  burst  upon  the  wanderer's  ear. 
He  stops,  he  listens — hark  again, 
Wild  rippling  laughter  rises  plain  ! 

O'er  his  fair  face  a  look  of  wonder 

Is  spreading — '  Injins  here — by  thunder ! ' 

He  cocks  his  gun,  and  stands  to  hear, 
Sets  his  white  teeth  together  tight, 

Then,  silent-footed  as  the  deer, 
Creeps  to  the  sound.     The  branches  bright 
Thicken  around  him  ;  with  quick  flight 
The  doves  and  blue-birds  gleam  away, 
Shooting  in  showers  from  spray  to  spray. 
A  thicket  of  a  thousand  blooms, 

Green,  rose,  white,  blue,  one  rainbow  glow, 
Closes  around  him  ;  strange  perfumes, 
Crush'd  underfoot  in  the  rich  glooms, 

Load  the  rich  air  as  he  doth  go  ; 

The  harmless  snakes  around  him  glow 
With  emerald  eyes  ;  lithe  arms  of  vine 
Trip  him  and  round  his  neck  entwine, 
Bursting  against  his  stained  skin 
Their  grapes  of  purple  glossy-thin. 
But  still  the  rippling  laughter  flows 
Before  him  as  he  creeps  and  goes, 
Till  suddenly,  with  a  strange  look, 
He  crouches  down  in  a  green  nook, 
Crouches  and  gazes  from  the  bowers, 
Curtain'd  and  cover'd  up  in  flowers. 

O,  what  strange  sight  before  him  lies  ? 
Why  doth  he  gaze  with  sparkling  eyes 
And  beating  heart  ?  Deep,  bright,  and  cool, 
Before  him  gleams  a  crystal  pool, 

CC 


386 


WHITE  ROSE  AND   RED. 


Fed  by  the  beck :  and  o'er  its  brim 
Festoons  of  roses  mirror'd  dim 
Hang  drooping  low  on  every  side  ; 

And  glorious  moths  and  dragon-flies 
Hover  above,  and  gleaming-eyed 

The  stingless  snake  hangs  blossom-wise, 
In  loose  folds  sleeping.     Not  on  these 
Gazes  Eureka  thro'  the  trees  : 
Snake  never  made  such  smiles  to  grace 
His  still  blue  eyes  and  sun-tann'd  face, 
And  never  flower,  howe'er  so  fair, 
Would  fix  that  face  to  such  a  stare. 
And  yet  like  gleaming  water-snakes 

They  wind  and  wanton  in  the  pool. 
Above  their  waists  in  flickering  flakes 
The  molten  sunlight  slips  and  shakes  ; 

Beneath,  their  gleaming  limbs  bathe  cool. 
One  floats  above  with  laughter  sweet, 
And  splashes  silver  with  her  feet ; 
One  clinging  to  the  drooping  boughs 

Leans  back,  and  lets  her  silken  hair 
Rain  backward  from  her  rippling  brows, 

While  on  her  shoulders  dark  and  bare 

Blossoms  fall  thick  and  linger  there 
Nestling  and  clinging.     To  the  throat 
Cover'd,  one  dark-eyed  thing  doth  float, 
Her  face  a  flower,  her  locks  all  wet, 
Tendrils  and  leaves  around  it  set ; 
O  sight  most  strangely  beautiful, 
Three  Indian  Naiads  in  a  pool ! 

Eureka,  be  it  understood, 

Though  beaver-born,  is  flesh  and  blood, 

And  what  he  saw  in  day's  broad  gold 

Was  stranger  far  a  thousand  fold, 

Than  that  wild  scene  bold  Tarn  O'Shanter 

In  Scotland  saw  one  winter  night, 
(Ah  with  the  Scottish  Bard  to  canter, 
On  Pegasus  to  Fame  instanter, 

Singing  one  song  so  trim  and  tight !) 
He    look'd,  and    look'd,   like  Tarn;    like 

him. 

On  the  most  fair  of  face  and  limb 
Fixing  most  long  his  wondering  eye  ; 
For  I  like  greater  bards  should  lie, 
if  I  averr'd  that  all  and  one 
Who  sported  there  beneath  the  sun, 
Were  gloriously  fair  of  face  ; 
But  they  were  women  of  red  race, 
Clad  in  the  most  bewitching  dress, 
Their  own  unconscious  loveliness  ; 
And  tho'  their  beauty  might  not  be 

Perfect  and  flawless,  they  were  fine, 


Bright-eyed,  red-lipp'd,  made  strongandfree 
In  many  a  cunning  curve  and  line 
A  sculptor  would  have  deem'd  divine. 

Not  so  the  rest,  who  all  around 

With  fierce  eyes  squatted  on  the  ground, 

Nodding  approval : — squaws  and  crones 

Clapping  their  hands  with  eager  groans. 

These  were  the  witches,  I  might  say, 

Of  this  new  tropic  Alloway. 

[As  for  the  Devil — even  he 

Was  by  the  Serpent  represented 

Swinging  asleep  from  a  green  tree, — 
Reflected,  gloriously  painted, 

In  the  bright  wa'er  where  the  three 

Laugh'd  and  disported  merrily.] 
• 

But  chiefly  poor  Eureka  gazed, 
Trembling,  dumb-stricken,  and  amazed, 
On  the  most  beautiful  of  all, 

Who  standing  on  the  water-side, 
A  perfect  shape  queenly  and  tall 

Stood  in  the  sun  erect,  and  dried 
Her  gleaming  body  head  to  feet 
In  one  broad  ray  of  golden  heat. 
Naked  she  stood,  but  her  strange  sheen 
Of  beauty  clad  her  like  a  queen, 
And  beaming  rings  of  yellow  gold 
Were  round  her  wrists  and  ankles  roll'd, 
And  on  her  skin  Eureka  scann'd 
A  symbol  bright  as  of  a  brand 
Held  burning  in  a  human  hand. 

Smiling,  she  spake  in  a  strange  tongue, 

And  eager  laughter  round  her  rung, 

While  wading  out  all  lustrous-eyed 

She  sat  upon  the  water-side, 

And  pelted  merrily  the  rest 

With  blossoms  bright  and  flowers  of  jest. 

Ah,  little  did  Eureka  guess, 
While  wondering  at  her  loveliness, 
The  same  fair  form  had  softly  crept 
And  look'd  upon  him  while  he  slept, 
And  thought  him  (him  !  the  man  of  Maine! 
Civilizee  with  beaver-brain  !) 
Beauteous,  in  passion's  first  wild  beam, 
Beyond  all  Indian  guess  or  dream  ! 

Eureka  Hart,  though  tempted  more 
Than  e'er  was  mortal  man  before, 
Did  not  like  Tarn  O'Shanter  break 

The  charm  with  mad  applause  or  call 
Too  wise  for  such  a  boor's  mistake, 

He  held  his  tongue,  observing  all  ; 


THR   CAPTURE    OF  EUREKA    HART. 


387 


But  while  the  hunter  forward  leant, 
Sharing  the  glorious  merriment, 
He  moved  a  little  unaware 

The  better  to  behold  the  sport, 
And  lo  !  upon  the  heavy  air 

Off  went  his  gun  with  sharp  report, 
And  while  the  bullet  past  his  ear 

Whizz'd  quick,    he    stagger'd  with   the 

shock, 
And  with  one  scream  distinct  and  clear 

Rose  the  red  women  in  a  flock. 
The  naked  bathers  stood  and  scream'd, 
The  brown  squaws  cried,  their  white  teeth 

gleam' d  ; 

And  ere  he  knew,  with  startled  face 
He  stagger'd  to  the  open  space  ; 
The  sharp  vines  tript  him,  and,  confounded, 
He  stumbled,  grasping  still  his  gun, — 
And,  by  the  chattering  choir  surrounded, 

Half  dazed,  lay  lengthways  in  the  sun. 

As  when  a  clumsy  grizzly  bear 

Breaks  on  a  dove-cot  unaware. 

As  when  some  snake,  unwieldy  heap, 

Drops  from  a  pine-bough,  half  asleep, 

Plump  in  the  midst  of  grazing  sheep  ; — 

Even  so  into  the  women-swarm 

Suddenly  fell  the  giant's  form  ! 

They  leapt,  they  scream'd,  they  closed,  they 

scatter'd, 
Some    fled,   some    stood,    all    call'd    and 

chatter'd, 

And  to  the  man  in  his  amaze 
Innumerable  seem'd  as  jays 
And  parroquets  in  the  green  ways. 
Had  they  been  men,  despite  their  throng, 
In  sooth  he  had  lain  still  less  long  ; 
But  somehow  in  the  stars  'twas  fated, 
He  for  a  space  was  fascinated ! 
And  ere  he  knew  what  he  should  do, 
All  round  about  him  swarm'd  the  crew, 
Sharp-eyed,  quick-finger' d,  and,  despite 
His  struggling,  clung  around  him  tight ; 
Half  choked,  half  smother'd  by  embraces, 
In  a  wild  mist  of  arms  and  faces, 
He  stagger'd  up  ;  in  vain,  in  vain  ! 
Hags,  squaws,  and  maidens  in  a  chain 
Clung  round  him,  and  with  quicker  speed 
Than  ye  this  running  rhyme  can  read, 
With  tendrils  tough  as  thong  of  hide, 
Torn  from  the  trees  on  every  side, 
In  spite  of  all  his  strength,  the  band 
Had  bound  the  Giant  foot  and  hand. 


IV. 

THRO'  THE  WOOD. 

Through  the  gleaming  forest  closes, 
Where  on  white  magnolia-roses 
Light  the  dim-draped  queen  reposes, 
Lo,  they  lead  the  captive  Giant. 

Shrieking  shrill  as  jays  around  him, 
They  have  led  him,  they  have  bound  him, 
With  a  wreath  of  vine-leaves  crown'd  him, 
Which  he  weareth,  half  defiant. 

If  their  ears  could  hear  him  swearing  ! 
Of  his  oaths  he  is  not  sparing, 
While,  with  hands  sharp-claw'd  for  tearing. 
Hags  and  beldams  burn  to  rend  him. 

If  the  younger,  prettier  creatures 
Heard  that  tallest  of  beseechers, 
While  he  pleads  with  frantic  features  1 
But  they  do  not  comprehend  him. 

In  their  Indian  tongue  they're  crying, 
From  the  forest  multiplying, 
Mocking,  murmuring,  leaping,  flying, 
While  he  shouts  out,  '  D the  women ! ' 

All  his  mighty  strength  is  nothing  : 
Like  a  ship,  despite  his  loathing, 
Mid  these  women  scant  of  clothing 
He  is  tossing,  struggling,  screaming. 

Crown'd  like  Bacchus  on  he  passes, 
O'er  deep  runlets,  through  great  grasses, 
While  [like  flies  around  molasses] 
Fair  and  foul  are  round  him  humming  ! 

Half  a  day  they  westward  wander, 
Stopping  not  to  rest  or  ponder  ; 
Then  the  forest  ends  ;  and  yonder 
Wild  dogs  bark  to  hear  them  coming. 

Cluster 'd  in  an  open  clearing 
Stand  the  wigwams  they  are  nearing, 
Bark  the  dogs,  a  strange  foot  fearing, 
Low  the  cattle, — straight  before  them. 

Out  into  the  sunlight  leaping, 
There  they  see  the  wigwams  sleeping, 
With  a  blue  smoke  upward  creeping, 
And  the  burning  azure  o'er  them  ! 

CC3 


WHITE   ROSE  AND   RED. 


All  is  still,  save  for  the  screaming 
Children  from  the  wigwams  streaming, 
All  is  still  and  sweet  to  seeming, 
Not  a  man's  face  forward  thrusting. 

Thinks  Eureka,  '  This  looks  stranger — 
Ne'er  a  man — then  double  danger  ; 
Many  a  year  I've  been  a  ranger, — 
Woman's  mercy  put  no  trust  in  ! ' 

As  he  speaks  in  trepidation, 

All  his  heart  in  palpitation, 

He  is  fill'd  with  admiration 

At  a  vision  wonder-laden. 

From  the  largest  wigwam,  slowly, 
While  the  women-band  bow  lowly, 
Comes  an  old  man  white  and  holy, 
Guided  gently  by  a  maiden  ! 

v. 
THE  RED  TRIBE. 

Ninety  long  years  had  slowly  shed 
Their  snows  upon  the  patriarch's  head, 
And  on  a  staff  of  ash  he  leant, 
Shaking  and  bending  as  he  went 
His  face,  sepulchral,  long,  and  thin, 
Was  shrivell'd  like  a  dried  snake's  skin, 
And  on  the  cheeks  and  forehead  dark 
Tattoo'd  was  many  a  livid  mark, 
And  in  the  midst  his  eyeballs  white 
Roll'd  blankly,  seeing  not  the  light ; 
And  when  he  listen' d  in  his  place 

You  saw  at  once  that  he  was  blind, 
For  with  a  visionary  grace 

Dim  mem'ries  moved  from  his  own  mind, 
And  the  wild  waters  of  his  face 

Waved  in  a  wondrous  wind. 

From  an  artistic  point  of  sight, 
The  aged  man  was  faultless  quite  ; 
Albeit  the  raiment  he  did  wear 

Was  somewhat  hybrid  ;  for  example, 
A  pair  of  pantaloons  threadbare 
Match'd  strangely  with  his  Indian  air, 

And  blanket  richly  wrought  and  ample  ; 
And,  though  perchance  not  over  clean, 
He  had  a  certain  gentle  mien 
Kindly  and  kingly  ;  and  a  smile 
Complacent  in  the  kingly  style, 
Yet  fraught  with  strangely  subtle  rays, 
The  lingering  light  of  other  days  : — 
Brightness  and  motion  such  as  we 
Trace  in  the  trouble  of  the  Sea, 


When  the  long  stormy  day  is  sped, 
And  in  the  last  light  dusky-red 
The  waves  are  sinking,  one  by  one. 

But  she  who  led  him  ! — In  the  sun 
She  gleam1  d  beside  him,  like  a  rose 
That  by  a  dark  sad  water  grows 
And  trembles.     In  a  moment's  space 
Eureka  recognised  the  face  ! 
'Twas  hers,  who  stood  most  beautiful, 
Queen  of  those  bathers  in  the  pool ! 
But  her  bright  locks  were  braided  now 
Around  her  clear  and  glistening  brow, 
And  on  her  limbs  she  wore  a  dress 
Less  rich  than  her  own  loveliness. 
From  the  artistic  point  of  view, 
The  maiden's  dress  was  faultless  too, 
But,  look'd  at  closely,  not  so  rare 
As  white-skinn'd  maid  would  wish  to  wear 
'Twas  coarsest  serge  of  sullen  dye, 
Albeit  embroider' d  curiously  ; 
And  the  few  ornaments  she  wore 
Were  trifles  valueless  and  poor  ; — 
Their  merit,  let  us  straight  confess, 
And  all  the  merit  of  her  dress, 
Was  that  they  form'd  for  eyes  to  see 
Nimbus  enough  of  drapery 
And  ornament,  just  to  suggest 
The  costume  that  became  her  best — 
Her  own  brave  beauty.     She  just  wore 
Enough  for  modesty— no  more. 
She  was  not,  as  white  beauties  seem, 
Smother'd,  like  strawberries  in  cream, 
With  folds  of  silk  and  linen.     No  ! 
The  Indians  wrap  their  babies  so, 
And  we  our  women  ;  who,  alas  ! 
Waddle  about  upon  the  grass, 
Distorted,  shapeless,  smother'd,  choking, 
Hideous,  and  horribly  provoking, 
Because  we  long,  without  offence, 
To  tear  the  mummy-wrappings  thence, 
And  show  the  human  form  enchanting 
That  'neath  the  fatal  folds  is  panting ! 

She  was  a  shapely  creature,  tall, 
And  slightly  form'd,  but  plump  withal, — 
Shapely  as  deer  are — finely  fair 
As  creatures  nourish' d  by  warm  air, 
And  luscious  fruits  that  interfuse 
Something  of  their  own  glorious  hues, 
And  the  rich  odour  that  perfumes  them, 
Into  the  body  that  consumes  them. 
She  had  drank  richness  thro'  and  thro' 
As  the  great  flowers  drink  light  and  dew  ; 


THE   CAPTURE   OF  EUREKA   HART. 


38$ 


And  she  had  caught  from  wandering  streams 
Their  restless  motion  ;  and  strange  gleams 
From  snakes  and  flowers  thatglow'd  around 
Had  stolen  into  her  blood,  and  found 
Warmth,  peace,  and  silence  ;  and,  in  brief, 
Her  looks  were  bright  beyond  belief 
Of  those  who  meet  in  the  green  ways 
The  rum- wreck' d  squaws  of  later  days. 

[I  would  be  accurate,  nor  essay 

Again  in  Cooper's  pleasant  way 

A  picture  highly  wrought  and  splendid 

Of  the  red  race  whose  pride  has  ended. 

Nor  here  by  contrast  err  :  indeed, 

The  red  man  is  of  Esau's  seed, 

Hath  Esau's  swiftness,  and,  I  guess, 

Much,  too,  of  Esau's  loveliness. 

A  thousand  years  in  the  free  wild 

He  fought  and  hunted,  leapt  and  smiled  ; 

A  million  impulses  and  rays 

Shot  thro'  his  spirit's  tangled  ways, 

Working  within  his  dusky  frame 

As  in  a  storm-cloud  worketh  flame, 

Shaping  his  strength  as  years  did  roll 

Into  the  semblance  of  his  soul. 

Slowly  his  shape  and  spirit  caught 

The  living  likeness  wonder-fraught, 

The  golden,  many-coloured  moods 

Of  those  free  plains  and  pathless  woods  ; 

Those  blooms  that  burst,  those  streams  that 

run 

One  changeless  rainbow  in  the  sun  1 
Unto  the  hues  of  this  rich  clime 
His  nature  was  subdued  in  time ; 
And  he  became  as  years  increased 
A  glorious  animal,  at  least.] 

Soon  like  a  mist  did  disappear 
Eureka  Hart's  first  foolish  fear, 
For  courteously  the  chief  address'd  him, 

In  English  speech  distinct  tho'  broken. 
Bade  them  unloose  and  cease  to  pest  him, 

And  further,  smiling  and  soft  spoken, 
Inquired  his  country  and  his  name, 
Whither  he  fared  and  whence  he  came. 
Eureka,  from  the  withes  released, 
Shook  himself  like  a  bright-eyed  beast, 
And  mutter'd  ;  then,  meeting  the  look 
Of  that  bright  na'iad  of  the  brook, 
Blush' d  like  a  shamefaced  boy,  while  she 
Stood  gazing  on  him  silently, 
With  melancholy  orbs  whose  flame 
Confused  his  soul  with  secret  shame. 


In  a  brief  answer  and  explicit, 

He  told  the  cause  of  his  strange  visit. 

The  old  chief  smiled  and  whisper'd  low 

Into  the  small  ear  of  the  maiden  : 
Her  large  eyes  fell,  and  with  a  glow 

Of  dark,  deep  rose  her  face  was  laden. 
Then,  like  a  sound  of  many  waters, 
Innumerable  screams  and  chatters, 
The  voices  of  the  women-band 

Broke  out  in  passion  and  in  power  ; 
But,  at  the  raising  of  his  hand, 

Ceased,  like  the  swift  cease  of  a  shower. 

Full  soon  Eureka  saw  and  knew 
That  the  Dark  Dame  who  favours  few 
Had  brought  him  to  a  friendly  place, 
Where,  far  from  cities,  a  mild  race 
Of  happy  Indians  spent  their  days 
'Mid  pastures  and  well-water'd  ways. 
An  ancient  people  strong  and  good, 
With  something  sacred  in  their  blood  ; 
Scatter'd  and  few,  to  strangers  kind  ; 
Wise  in  the  ways  of  rain  and  wind  ; 
Peaceful  when  pleased,  bloody  when  roused, 
They  dwelt  there  comfortably  housed  ; 
And  in  those  gardens  ever  fair, 
Hunted  and  fish'd  with  little  care. 
Just  then  their  braves  were  roaming  bound 
On  an  adjacent  hunting-ground ; 
And  all  the  population  then 
Were  women  wild  and  aged  men. — 
But  he,  that  old  man  blind  and  tall, 
Was  a  great  King,  and  Chief  of  all ; 
And  she  who  led  him  was  by  birth 
His  grandchild,  dearest  thing  on  earth 
To  his  dusk  age  ;  and  dear  tenfold 

Because  no  other  kin  had  she, — 
Since  sire  and  mother  both  lay  cold 

Under  Death's  leafless  Upas-tree. 

Enough  !  here  faltereth  my  first  song  : 
Eureka,  still  in  secret  captured, 

In  that  lost  Eden  lingers  long, 
And  his  big  bosom  beats  enraptured. 

Long  days  and  nights  speed  o'er  him  there ; 

What  binds  him  now  ?  a  woman's  hair ! 

What  doth  he  see  ?  a  woman's  eyes 

Above  him  luminously  rise  ! 

What  doth  he  kiss  ?  a  woman's  mouth 

Sweeter  than  spice-winds  of  the  south ! 

By  golden  streams  he  lies  full  blest, 

And  Red  Rose  blossoms  on  his  breast. 


390 


WHITE  ROSE  AND  RED. 


O  love  !  love  !  love  !  whose  spells  are  shed 
On  bodies  black,  white,  yellow,  red — 
Flame  of  all  matter, — flower  of  clay, — 
Star  of  pangenesis  ; — but  stay  I 
A  theme  of  so  divine  a  tone 
Must  have  a  canto  of  its  own  I 


PART  II. 
RED  ROSE. 

i. 
ERYCINA  RIDENS. 

O  LOVE  !  O  spirit  of  being  ! 

O  wonderful  secret  of  breath, 
Sweeter  than  hearing  or  seeing, 

Sadder  than  sorrow  or  death. 

Earth  with  its  holiest  flavour, 
Life  with  its  lordliest  dower, 

The  fruit's  strange  essence  and  flavour, 
Bloom  and  scent  of  the  flower. 

[Thus  might  a  modern  poet, 

O  Aphrodite,  uptake 
His  fanciful  flute  and  blow  it, 

And  wail  the  echoes  awake  !] 

0  love,  love,  Aphrodite, 
Cytherea  divine, 

1  hold  you  fever'd  and  flighty, 
And  seek  a  pleasanter  shrine. 

Yet  hither,  O  spirit  fervent, 

Just  to  help  me  along, 
Forget  I  am  not  thy  servant, 

And  blow  in  the  sails  of  my  song. 

For  lo  !  'tis  a  situation 

Caused  by  thyself,  'twould  seem  ; 
The  old,  old  foolish  sensation, 

Two  lovers  lost  in  a  dream. 

O  the  wonder  and  glory, 
Bright  as  Creation's  burst ! 

O  the  ancestral  story, 
Old  as  Adam  the  first ! 

Flame,  and  fervour,  and  fever, 
Flashing  from  morning  to  night, 

Alliteration  for  ever 

Of  love,  and  longing,  and  light. 


How  should  the  story  vary? 

How  the  song  be  new  ? 
Music  and  meaning  marry  ? 

'Tis  love,  love,  love,  all  thro'  I 

As  it  was  in  the  beginning, 

Is,  and  ever  shall  be  ! 
Loving,  and  love  for  the  winning, 

Love,  and  the  soul  set  free. 

[An  invocation  like  this  is 

Need  not  be  over-wise  ; 
Who  shall  interpret  kisses  ? 

What  is  the  language  of  eyes  ?] 

Again  a  man  and  a  woman 
Feeling  the  old  blest  thing, 

Better  than  voices  human 
A  bird  on  the  bough  could  sing. 

Only  a  sound  is  wanted, 

Merry,  and  happy,  and  loud, — 
Such  as  the  lark  hath  panted 

Up  in  the  golden  cloud. 

Lips,  and  lips  to  kiss  them  ; 

Eyes,  and  eyes  to  behold  ; 
Hands,  and  hands  to  press  them  ; 

Arms,  and  arms  to  enfold. 

The  love  that  comes  to  the  palace, 
That  comes  to  the  cottage  door  ; 

The  ever-abundant  chalice 
Brimming  for  rich  and  poor  ; 

The  love  that  waits  for  the  winning, 
The  love  that  ever  is  free, 

That  was  in  the  world's  beginning, 
Is,  and  ever  shall  be  1 


LOG  AND  SUNBEAM. 

As  a  pine-log  prostrate  lying, 

Slowly  thro'  its  knotted  skin 
Feels  the  warm  revivifying 

Spring-time  thrill  and  tremble  in  ; 
As  a  pine-log,  strong  and  massive, 
Feels  the  light  and  lieth  passive, 
While  a  Sunbeam,  coming  daily, 
Creeps  upon  its  bosom  gaily  ; 
Warms  the  bark  with  quick  pulsations, 
Warms  and  waits  each  day  in  patience. 
While  the  green  begins  to  brighten, 
And  the  sap  begins  to  heighten, — 


RED  ROSE. 


391 


Till  at  last  from  its  hard  bosom 
Suddenly  there  slips  a  blossom 
Green  as  emerald  ! — then  another  ! 

Then  a  third  !  then  more  and  more  ! 
Till  the  soft  green  bud-knots  smother 

What  was  sapless  wood  before  ; 
Till  the  thing  is  consecrated 

To  the  spirit  of  the  Spring, 
Till  the  love  for  all  things  fated 

Burns  and  beautifies  the  thing  ; — 
And  the  wood-doves  sit  and  con  it, 

And  the  squirrels  from  on  high 
Fluttering  drop  their  nuts  upon  it, 

And  the  bee  and  butterfly 
Find  it  pleasant  to  alight  there, 
And  taps  busy  morn  and  night  there 

Many  a  bird  with  golden  beak  ; 
Till,  since  all  has  grown  so  bright  there, 

It  would  cry  (if  Logs  could  speak), 
'  Sunbeam,  sunbeam,  I'm  your  debtor  ! 

I  was  fit  for  firewood  nearly. 
I'm  considerably  better, 

And  I  love  you,  Sunbeam,  dearly  ! ' 

.  .  .   Thou,  Eureka,  wast  the  wood  ! 

She,  the  Sunbeam  of  the  Spring, 
Vivifying  thy  dull  blood 

Past  thy  mind's  imagining  ! 
Till  the  passion  of  her  loving, 

Seething  forth  with  ardours  frantic, 
Brought  the  buds  forth,  set  thee  moving, 

Made  thee  almost  look  romantic. 

'  O  would  some  power  the  giftie  gie  us 
To  see  oursels  as  others  see  us  ! ' 

Sang  the  wise  ploughman  in  his  power. 
And  yet,  Eureka,  had  sweet  Heaven 
To  thee  her  wondrous  '  giftie  '  given 

To  see  thyself  as  seen  that  hour, 
To  know  thy  features  as  she  knew  them, 

To  see  thy  shape  as  she  perceived  it  ; 
To  see  thine  eyes,  and  thro'  and  thro'  them, 

Into  thy  Soul  as  she  conceived  it ; 
Either  thy  blood  had  run  mad  races, 

And  driven  thee  to  some  maniac  action  ; 
Or  (what  more  likely  in  the  case  is) 

Thy  wits  had  frozen  to  stupefaction  ! 

For  never  god  in  olden  story, 
When  the  gods  had  honour  due, 

Gather' d  brighter  guise  and  glory, 
In  an  adoring  mortal's  view. 

Let  me  own  it,  though  thy  nature 
Was  sedate  and  beaver-bred, 


As  a  god  thou  wert  in  stature, 

Fair  of  face  and  proud  of  tread  ; 
And  thine,  eyes  were  luminous  glasses, 

And  thy  face  a  glorious  scroll, 
And  the  radiant  light  that  passes 
O'er  the  dumb  flowers  and  the  grasses, 

Caught  thy  gaze  and  look'd  like  Soul ; 
And  the  animal  vibration 

Throbbing  in  thee  at  her  touch, 
The  wild  earthly  exaltation, 

Beasts  and  birds  can  feel  as  much, 
Radiating  and  illuming 

Every  fibre  of  thy  flesh, 
Made  thee  beautiful  and  blooming, 

Great  and  glorious,  fair  and  fresh  ; 
Fit  it  seem'd  for  love  to  yearn  to, 

For  a  fairer  Soul  than  thine, 
Morning,  noon,  and  night  to  burn  to, 

In  a  flash  that  felt  divine. 
Her  tall  white  chief,  whom  God  had  brought 

her 

From  the  far-off  Big-Sea  Water  ! 
Her  warrior  of  the  pale  races, 
With  wise  tongues  and  paintless  faces  ; 
More  than  mortal,  a  great  creature, 
Soft  of  tongue,  and  fine  of  feature  ; 
As  the  wind  that  blew  above  her 

O'er  the  hunting-fields  of  azure, 
As  the  stately  clouds  that  hover 

In  the  air  that  pants  for  pleasure, 
Full  of  strength  and  motion  stately, 

Were  thy  face  and  form  unto  her  ; 
And  thy  blue  eyes  pleased  her  greatly. 

And  thy  clear  voice  trembled  thro'  her  ; 
And  for  minute  after  minute 

She  did  pore  upon  thy  face, 
Read  the  lines  and  guess  within  it 

The  great  spirit  of  thy  race  ; 
And  thou  seemedst  altogether 

A  great  creature,  fair  of  skin, 
Born  in  scenes  of  softer  weather, 

Nobler  than  her  savage  kin  ! 

As  a  peasant  maiden  homely 

Might  regard  some  lordly  wooer, 
Find  each  feature  trebly  comely 

From  the  pride  it  stoops  unto  her1; 
Thus,  Eureka,  she  esteem' d  thee 

Fairer  for  thy  finer  blood  ; 
She  revered  thee,  loved  thee,  deem'd  thee 

Wholly  beautiful  and  good  ! 
And  her  day-dream  ne'er  was  broken, 

As  some  mortal  day-dreams  are, 


WHITE  ROSE  AND  RED. 


By  a  word  or  sentence  spoken 

In  thy  coarse  vernacular. 
For  she  could  not  speak  a  dozen 

Words  as  used  by  the  white  nation  I 
And  thy  speech  seem'd  finely  chosen, 

Since  she  made  her  own  translation, 
Scarce  a  syllable  quite  catching, 

Yet,  upon  thy  bosom  leaning, 
Out  of  ever  sentence  snatching 

Music  with  its  own  sweet  meaning. 

Powers  above  !  the  situation's 

Psychological,  I  swear ! 
How  express  the  false  relations 

Of  this  strange-assorted  pair  ? 
Happy,  glorious,  self-deluded, 
On  the  handsome  face  she  brooded, 
Ne'er  by  word  or  gesture  driven 
From  her  day-dream  sweet  as  heaven. 
In  her  native  language  for  him 

She  had  warrior's  names  most  sweet : 
And  she  loved  and  did  adore  him, 

Falling  fawn-like  at  his  feet ; 
More,  the  rapturous  exultation 

Struck  him  \  blinded  him,  in  turn  ! 
Till  with  passionate  sensation 

Body  and  brain  began  to  burn  ; — 
And  he  yielded  to  the  bursting, 
Burning,  blinding,  hungering,  thirsting, 

Passion  felt  by  beasts  and  men  ! 
And  his  eyes  caught  love  and  rapture, 
And  he  held  her  close  in  capture, 

Kissing  lips — that  kiss'd  again  ! 

in. 
NUPTIAL  SONG. 

Where  were  they  wedded?    In  no  Temple 

of  ice 

Built  up  by  human  fingers  ; 
The  floor  was  strewn  with  flowers  of  fair 

device, 
The  wood-birds  were  the  singers. 

Who  was  the  Priest  ?    The  priest  was  the 
still  Soul, 

Calm,  gentle,  and  low-spoken  ; 
He  read  a  running  brooklet  like  a  scroll, 

And  trembled  at  the  token. 

What  was  the  service?  'Twas  the  service  read 
When  Adam's  faith  was  plighted  ! 

The  tongue  was  silent,  but  the  lips  rose-red 
In  silence  were  united. 


Who  saw  it  done  ?    The  million  starry  eyes 

Of  one  ecstatic  Heaven. 
Who  shared  the  joy?     The  flowers,   the 
trees,  the  skies 

Thrill'd  as  each  kiss  was  given. 

Who  was  the  Bride?    A  spirit  strong  and 
true, 

Beauteous  to  human  seeing, — 
Soft  elements  of  flesh,  air,  fire,  and  dew, 

Blent  in  one  Rose  of  being. 

What  was  her  consecration?    Innocence  ! 

Pure  as  the  wood-doves  round  her, 
Nothing  she  knew  of  rites— the  strength 
intense 

Of  God  and  Nature  found  her. 


^ 


As  freely  as  maids  give  a  lock  away, 

She  gave  herself  unto  him. 
What  was  the  Bridegroom?     Clay, 
common  clay, 

Yet  the  wild  joy  slipt  through  him. 

Hymen,  O  Hymen !     By  the  birds  was  shed 

A  matrimonial  cadence ! 
Da  nucesl    Squirrels  strew'd  the  nuts,  in- 
stead 

Of  rosy  youths  and  maidens  ! 

Eureka,  yea,  Eureka  was  to  blame — 

He  was  an  erring  creature  : 
Uncivilised  by  one  wild  flash  of  flame 

He  waver' d  back  on  Nature. 

He  kiss'd  her  lips,  he  drank  her  breath  in 
bliss, 

He  drew  her  to  his  bosom  : 
As  a  clod  kindles  at  the  Spring's  first  kiss 

His  being  burst  to  blossom  1 

Who  rung  the  bells?     The   breeze,   the 

merry  breeze, 

Set  all  in  bright  vibration  : 
Clear,    sweet,    yet    low,    there    trembled 

through  the  trees 
The  nuptial  jubilation  1 

IV. 

ARRETEZ ! 

O'er  this  joy  I  dare  not  linger  : 
Stands  a  Shape  with  lifted  finger 
Crying  in  a  low  voice,  '  Singer  ! 
Far  too  much  of  Eve  and  Adam. 


XOSE. 


393 


'  Details  of  this  dark  connection 
I  desire  not  for  inspection  I ' 
And  the  Bard,  with  genuflexion, 
Answers,  '  I  obey  thee,  Madam  1 ' 

Stands  the  Moral  Shape  reproving, 
While  I  linger  o'er  this  loving  ; 
Cries  the  voice,  '  Pass  on  !  be  moving  ! 
We  are  virtuous,  here  to  nor' ward ! ' 

Constable,  I  force  cessation 
To  my  flood  of  inspiration  ; 
Such  a  theme  for  adumbration  ! 
I  resign  it,  and  move  forward. 

v. 
THE  FAREWELL. 

Love,  O  love  !  thou  bright  and  burning 
Weathercock  for  ever  turning  ; 
Gilded  vane,  fix'd  for  our  seeing 
On  the  highest  spire  of  being  ; 
Symbol,  indication  ;  reeling 
Round  to  every  wind  of  feeling  ; 
Only  pointing  some  sad  morrow, 
In  one  sudden  gust  of  sorrow, 
Sunset-ward,  where  redly,  slowly, 
Passion  sets  in  melancholy. 

In  the  wood-ways,  roof'd  by  heaven, 
Were  the  nuptial  kisses  given  ; 
In  the  dark  green,  moonbeam-haunted 
Forest ;  in  the  bowers  enchanted 
Where  the  fiery  specks  are  flying, 
And  the  whip-poor-will  is  crying  ; 
Where  the  heaven's  open  blue  eye 
Thro'  the  boughs  broods  dark  and  dewy, 
And  the  white  magnolia  glimmers 
Back  the  light  in  starry  tremors  ; 
Where  the  acacia  in  the  shady 
Silence  trembles  like  a  lady 
Scented  sweet  and  softly  breathing  ; 
There,  amid  the  brightly  wreathing, 
Blooming  branches,  did  they  capture 
Love's  first  consecrated  rapture. 

Pure  she  came  to  him,  a  maiden 
Innocent  as  Eve  in  Eden, 
Tho'  in  secret ;  for  she  dreaded 
Wrath  of  kinsmen  tiger-headed, 
In  whose  vision,  fierce  and  awful, 
Love  for  white  men  was  unlawful. 
Yet  in  this  her  simple  reason 
Knew  no  darker  touch  of  treason 


Than  dost  thou,  O  white  and  dainty 
English  maid  of  sweet-and-twenty, 
When  from  guardian,  father,  brother, 
[Harsh  protectors,  one  or  t'other,] 
Off  you  trip,  self-handed  over 
To  your  chosen  lord  and  lover, 
Tears  of  love  and  rapture  shedding 
In  the  hush  of  secret  wedding. 

Now  from  these- lost  days  Elysian, 
Modestly  I  drop  my  vision  ! 
Rose  the  wave  supreme  and  splendid, 
To  a  tremulous  crest,  and  ended, 
Falling,  falling,  one  sad  morrow, 
In  a  starry  spray  of  sorrow. 

Whether  'twas  by  days  or  hours, 
Weeks  or  months,  in  those  bright  bowers, 
They  their  gladness  counted, — whether 
Like  the  one  day's  summer  weather 
At  the  pole,  their  bliss  upstarted, 
Brighten'd,  blacken'd,  and  departed,— 
I  relate  not ;  all  my  story 
Is,  that  soon  or  late  this  glory 
Fell  and  faded.     After  daylight 
Came  an  eve  of  sad  and  gray  light ; 
There  were  tears — wild  words  were  spoken, 
Down  the  cup  was  dash'd,  and  broken. 

First  came  danger, — eyeballs  fiery 
Watch'd  the  pair  in  fierce  inquiry ; 
Secret  footsteps  dodged  the  lovers ; 
As  a  black  hawk  slowly  hovers 
O'er  the  spot  amid  the  heather 
Where  the  gray  birds  crouch  together, 
Hung  Suspicion  o'er  the  places 
Where  they  sat  with  flaming  faces. 
Next  came— what  d'ye  call  the  dreary 
Heavy-hearted  thing  and  weary, 
In  old  weeds  of  joy  bedizen' d? 
By  the  shallow  French  'tis  christen'd 
Ennui  !    Ay,  the  snake  that  grovels 
In  a  host  of  scrofulous  novels, 
Leper  even  of  the  leprous 
Race  of  serpents  vain  and  viprous, 
Bred  of  slimy  eggs  of  evil, 
Sat  on  by  the  printer's  devil, 
Last,  to  gladden  absinthe-lovers, 
Born  by  broods  in  paper  covers  ! 

After  the  great  wave  of  madness, 
Ennui  came ;  and  tho'  in  gladness 
Still  the  Indian  maiden's  nature 
Clung  round  the  inferior  creature, 


394 


WHITE   ROSE   AND   RED. 


Though  with  burning,  unconsuming, 
Deathless  love  her  heart  was  blooming, 
He  grew  weary,  and  his  passion 
In  a  dull  evaporation 
Slowly  lessen'd,  till  caressing 
Grew  distracting  and  distressing. 
Conscience  waken'd  in  a  fever, 
Just  a  day  too  late,  as  ever  ; 
He  remember' d,  one  fine  day, 
His  relations  far  away. 

All  the  beavers  !  the  deceiver  ! 
After  all,  he  was  a  beaver 
Born  and  bred,  tho'  the  unchanging 
Dash  of  wild  blood  kept  him  ranging  ; 
Beaver-conscience,  now  awaken'd, 
Since  the  first  true  bliss  had  slacken'd, 
Whisper' d  with  a  sad  affection, 
'  Fie  !  it  is  a  strange  connection  I 
Is  it  worthy  ?    Can  it  profit  ? 
Sits  the  world  approving  of  it  ? ' 
While  another  whisper  said, 
'  You're  a  white  man !    She  is  red ! ' 
Ne'ertheless  he  seem'd  to  love  her, 
Watch' d  her  face  and  bent  above  her, 
Fondly  thinking,  '  Now,  I  wonder 
If  the  world  would  blame  my  blunder  ? 
If  her  skin  were  only  whiter, 
If  her  manners  were  politer, 
I  would  take  her  with  me  nor' ward, 
Wed  her,  cling  to  her  thenceforward, 
Clothe  her  further,  just  a  tittle, 
Live  respectable  and  settle ! ' 
She  was  silent,  as  he  brooded 
Handsome-faced  and  beaver-mooded, 
Thinking,  '  Now  my  chief  is  seeming 
Where  the  fires  of  fight  are  streaming ! 
O,  how  great  and  grand  his  face  is, 
Lit  with  light  of  the  pale  races  ! ' 
And  she  bent  her  brows  before  him, 
Kiss'd  his  hands,  and  did  adore  him, 
And  she  waited  in  deep  duty  ; 
While  her  eyes  of  dazzling  beauty, 
Like  two  jewels  ever  streaming 

Broken  yet  unceasing  rays, 
Watch'd  him  as  in  beaver-dreaming 

He  would  walk  in  the  green  ways. 

Still  he  seem'd  to  her  a  splendid 
Creature,  but  his  trance  had  ended  ; 
More  and  more,  thro'  ever  seeing 

Red  skins  round  him,  he  lost  patience, 
More  and  more  the  hybrid  being 

Sigh'd  for  civilised  relations  ; 


For  Eureka  Hart,  tho'  wholly 

Of  a  common  social  mind, 
Narrow-natured,  melancholy, 

Hated  ties  of  any  kind  ; — 
Yet  if  any  tie  could  hold  him 

To  a  place  or  to  a  woman, 
'Twould  be  one  the  world  had  told  him 

Was  respectable  and  common. 
Here,  then,  hemm'd  in  by  a  double 
Dark  dilemma,  he  found  trouble, 
And  with  look  a  Grecian  painter 

Would  have  given  to  a  god, 
Feeling  passion  still  grow  fainter, 

Thought,  '  I  reckon  things  look  odd  ! 
Wouldn't  Parson  Pendon  frown, 
If  he  knew,  in  Drowsietown  ? ' 

As  he  spoke  he  saw  the  village 
Rising  up  with  tilth  and  tillage, 
Saw  the  smithy,  like  an  eye 
Flaming  bloodshot  at  the  sky, 
Saw  the  sleepy  river  flowing, 

Saw  the  swamps  burn  in  the  sun, 
Saw  the  people  coming,  going, 

All  familiar,  one  by  one. 
'  There  the  plump  old  Parson  goes, 
Silver  buckles  on  his  toes. 
Broad-brimm'd  beaver  on  his  head, 
Clean-shaved  chin,  and  cheek  as  red 
As  ripe  pippins,  kept  in  hay, 
Polish'd  on  Thanksgiving  day  ; 
Black  coat,  breeches,  all  complete, 
On  the  old  mare  he  keeps  his  seat, 
Jogging  on  with  smiles  so  bright 
To  creation  left  and  right. 
There's  the  Widow  Abner  smiling 

At  her  door  as  he  goes  past, 
Guess  she  thinks  she  looks  beguiling, 

But  he  cuts  along  more  fast. 
There's  Abe  Sinker  drunk  as  ever, 

There's  the  pigs  all  in  the  gutter, 
There's  the  miller  by  the  river, 

Broad  as  long  and  fat  as  butter. 
See  it  all,  so  plain  and  pleasant, 

Just  like  life  their  shadows  pass, 
Wonder  how  they  are  at  present? 

Guess  they  think  I'm  gone  to  grass  I ' 
While  this  scene  he  contemplated, 

Sighing  like  a  homeless  creature, 
Round  him,  brightly  concentrated, 

Glow'd  the  primal  fire  of  Nature  ! 
Rainbow-hued  and  rapturous-colour' d. 

With  one  burning  brilliant  look 


RED  ROSE. 


395 


Flaming  fix'd  upon  the  dullard, 

Nature  rose  in  wild  rebuke  ! 
Shower'd  her  blossoms  round  him,  o'er  him, 

Breathed  warm  breath  upon  his  face, 
Flash'd  her  flowers  and  fruits  before  him, 

Follow'd  him  from  place  to  place  ; 
With  wild  jasmine  and  with  amber 
She  perfumed  his  sleeping  chamber, 
Hung  around  him  happy  hours 
With  her  arms  of  lustre-flowers, 
Held  to  his  in  blest  reposes 
Her  warm  breasts  of  living  roses  ; 
Bade  a  thousand  dazzling,  crying, 

Living,  creatures  do  him  honour, 
Stood  herself,  naked  and  sighing, 

With  an  aureole  upon  her  ; 
Then,  with  finger  flashing  brightly 

Pointing  to  her  prime  creation, — 
Fruits  and  flowers  and  scents  blent  lightly 

In  one  dazzling  adumbration, — 
Cried  unto  him  over  and  over, 
'  See  my  child  !     O  love  her,  love  her ! 
/  eternal  am,  no  comer 
In  a  feeble  flush  of  summer, 
Like  the  hectic  colour  flying 
Ot  a  maid  love-sick  and  dying  ; 
Here  no  change,  but  ever  burning 
Quenchless  fire,  and  ceaseless  yearning  : 
Endless  exquisite  vibration 

Sweet  as  love's  first  nuptial  kiss, 
One  soft  sob  of  strange  sensation 

Flowering  into  shapes  of  bliss  ; 
And  the  brightest,  O  behold  her 

With  a  changeless  warmth  like  mine — 
Love  her  !     In  thy  soul  enfold  her  ! 

Blend  with  us,  and  be  divine  ! ' 
All  in  vain  that  fond  entreating ! 

Still  Eureka"  s  beaver-brain 
Thought — 'This  climate's  rather  heating- 
Weather's  cooler  up  in  Maine  ! ' 

Yet  no  wonder  Nature  loved  him, 

Sought  to  take  his  soul  by  storm, 
Gloried  when  her  meaning  moved  him, 

Clung  in  fondness  round  his  form  ; 
For,  in  sooth,  tho'  unimpassion'd, 
Gloriously  the  man  was  fashion'd  : 
One  around  whose  strength  and  splendour 

Women  would  have  pray'd  to  twine, 
As  the  lian  loves  to  blend  her 

Being  with  the  beech  or  pine. 
And  his  smile  when  she  was  present 

Was  seraphic,  full  of  spirit, 


And  his  voice  was  low  and  pleasant, 

And  her  soul  grew  bright  to  hear  it ! 
And  when  tall  he  strode  to  meet  her, 
And  his  handsome  face  grew  sweeter, 
In  her  soul  she  thought,  '  O  being, 
Fair  and  gracious  and  deep-seeing, 
White  man,  great  man,  far  above  me, 
What  am  /,  that  thou  shouldst  love  me  ? ' 

She  had  learnt  him  with  lips  burning 
(O  for  such  a  course  of  learning  !) 
Something  of  her  speech, — 'twas  certain 
Quite  enough  to  woo  and  flirt  in  ; 
Words  not  easy  of  translation 
They  transfused  into  sensation, 
Soon  discovering  and  proving, 

As  a  small  experience  teaches, 
'  Bliss  '  and  '  kiss,'  and  other  loving 

Words,  are  common  to  all  speeches  ! 
Ah,  the  rapture  !  ah,  the  fleeting 
Follies  of  each  fond,  mad  meeting  ! 
Smiling  with  red  lips  asunder, 
Clapping  hands  at  each  fond  blunder, 
She  instructed  him  right  gaily 
In  her  Indian  patois  daily, 
Sweetly  from  his  lips  it  sounded, 

Help'd  with  those  great  azure  eyes, 
Till  upon  his  heart  she  bounded 

Panting  praise  with  laughs  and  cries. 
'Twas  a  speech  antique  and  olden, 

Full  of  gurgling  notes,  it  ran 
Like  some  river  rippling  golden 

Down  a  vale  Arcadian  ; 
Like  the  voices  of  doves  brooding  ; 

Like  a  fountain's  gentle  moan  ; 
Nothing  commonplace  intruding 

On  its  regal  monotone  : 
Sounds  and  symbols  interblending 

Like  the  heave  of  loving  bosoms  ; 
Consonants  like  strong  boughs  bending, 

Snowing  vowels  down  like  blossoms  ! 
Faltering  in  this  tongue,  he  told  her, 

Sitting  in  a  secret  place, 
While  with  bright  head  on  his  shoulder, 

Luminous-eyed,  she  watch' d  his  face, 
How,  tho'  every  hour  grown  fonder, 

Tho'  his  soul  was  still  aflame, 
Still,  he  sigh'd  once  more  to  wander 

To  the  clime  from  whence  he  came  ; 
Just  once  more  to  look  upon  it, 
Just  for  one  brief  hour  to  con  it, 
Just  to  see  his  kin  and  others 

In  the  Town  where  they  did  dwelL 


396 


WHITE  ROSE  AND  RED. 


Just  to  say  to  his  white  brothers 

One  farewell,  a  last  farewell 
Then  to  hasten  back  unto  her, 

And  to  live  with  her  and  die.  .  .  , 
Sharp  as  steel  his  speech  stabb'd  thro'  her, 

Cold  she  sat  without  a  cry, 
On  her  heart  her  small  hand  pressing, 

Breathing  like  a  bird  in  pain, 
Silent,  tho'  he  smiled  caressing, 

Kiss'd,  but  kissing  not  again. 

Then  she  waken'd,  like  one  waking 
From  a  trance,  and  with  heart  aching 
Clung  around  him,  as  if  dreading 

Lest  some  hand  should  snatch  him  thence ! 
Then,  upon  his  bosom  shedding 

Tears  of  ecstacy  intense, 
By  her  gods  conjured  him  wildly 

Never,  never  to  depart ! 
O  how  meekly,  O  how  mildly, 

Answer'd  back  Eureka  Hart ! 

But  by  slow  degrees  he  coax'd  her, 

Night  by  night,  and  day  by  day, 
With  such  specious  spells  he  hoax'd  her 

That  her  first  fear  fled  away. 
Slow  she  yielded,  still  believing 

Not  for  long  he'd  leave  her  lonely  ; 
For  he  told  her,  still  deceiving, 

'Twas  a  little  journey  only. 
Poor,  dark  bird  !  nought  then  knew  she 
Of  this  world's  geography  ! 

Troubled,  shaken,  half-demented, 

Broken-hearted — she  assented. 

Since,  by  wind,  and  wave,  and  vapour, 

By  the  shapes  of  earth  and  skies  ; 
By  the  white  moon's  ghostly  taper, 

By  the  stars  that  like  dead  eyes 
Watch  it  burning  ;  by  the  mystic 

Motion  of  the  winds  and  woods  ; 
By  all  dark  and  cabalistic 

Shapes  of  tropic  solitudes  ; 
By  the  waters  melancholy  ; 

By  God's  hunting-fields  of  blue  ; 
By  all  things  that  she  deem'd  holy 

He  had  promised  to  be  true  ! 
Just  to  pay  a  flying  visit 

To  connections  close  at  hand, 
Then  to  haste  with  love  undying 

Back  unto  that  happy  land. 
'Twas  enough  !  the  Maid  assented, 

Thinking  sadly,  in  her  pain, 


'  He  will  never  be  contented 
Till  he  sees  them  once  again. 

Thither,  thither  let  him  wander  ; 
When  once  more  I  feel  his  kiss, 

His  proud  spirit  will  be  fonder 
Since  my  love  hath  granted  this  1 ' 

'  Go  ! '  she  cried,  and  her  dark  features 

Kindled  like  a  dying  creature's, 
And  her  heart  rose,  and  her  spirit 

Cried  as  if  for  God  to  hear  it — 
Wildly  in  her  arms  she  press'd  him 

To  her  bosom  broken-hearted — 
Call'd  upon  her  gods,  and  blest  him  ! 

And  Eureka  Hart  departed. 

VI. 

THE  PAPER. 

Here  should  my  second  canto  end — yet  stay 
Listen  a  little  ere  ye  turn  away. 

By  night  they  parted ;  and  she  cut  by  night 
One  large  lock  from  his  forehead,  which 

with  bright, 
Warm  lips  she  kiss'd  ;  then  kiss'd  the  lock 

of  hair, 

With  one  quick  sob  of  passionate  despair  ; 
And  he,  with  hand  that  shook  a  little  now, 
Still  with  that  burning  seal  upon  his  brow, 
While  in  that  bitter  agony  they  embraced, 
He  in  her  little  hand  a  paper  placed, 
Whereon,  at  her  fond  prayer,  he  had  writ 

plain, 
'  Eureka    Hart,    Drowsietown,    State    oj 

Maine.' 
'For,'  thought  he,  '  I  have  promised  soon 

or  late 

Hither  to  come  again  to  her,  my  mate  ; 
And  I  will  keep  my  promise,  sure,  some  day, 
Unless  I  die  or  sicken  by  the  way. 
But  no  man  knows  what  pathway  he  may 

tread, — 
To-morrow  —  nay,   ere  dawn  —  I  may  be 

dead! 
And  she  shall  know,  lest  foul  my  fortune 

proves, 

The  name  and  country  of  the  man  she  loves  ; 
And  since  she  wishes  it,  to  cheer  her  heart, 
It  shall  be  written  down  ere  I  depart.' 
And  so  it  was ;  and  while  his  kiss  thrill'd 

thro'  her, 
With  that  loved  lock  of  hair  he  gave  it  to 

her. 


RED  ROSE—WHITE  ROSE. 


397 


Aye,  so  it  was  ;  for  in  the  woods  at  dawn 
He  from  his  pouch  had  an  old  letter  drawn, 
One  leaf  of  which  was  blank,  and  this  he 

took, 

And  smiling  at  the  woman's  wondering  look, 
While  quietly  she  murmur'd,  '  Tis  a  charm!" 
In  hunter's  fashion  he  had  prick'd  his  arm, 
And,  having  pen  nor  ink,  had  ta'en  a  spear 
Of  thorn  for  stylus,  and  in  crimson  clear, 
His  own  heart's  blood,  had  writ  the  words 

she  sought. 

And  in  that  hour  deep  pity  in  him  wrought, 
And  he  believed  that  he  his  vows  would 

keep, 

Nor  e'er  be  treacherous  to  a  love  so  deep. 
'  See ! '  said  he,  as  the  precious  words  he 

gave, 

1  Keep  this  upon  thy  bosom,  and  be  brave. 
As  sure  as  that  red  blood  belong'd  to  me, 
I  shall,  If  I  live  on,  return  to  thee. 
If  death  should  find  me  while  thou  here 

dost  wait, 

Thou  canst  at  least  make  question  of  my  fate 
Of  any  white  man  whose  stray  feet  may  fare 
Down  hither,  showing  him  the  words  writ 

there.' 

All  this  he  said  to  her  with  faltering  voice 
In  broken  Indian,  and  in  words  less  choice  ; 
And  quite  persuaded  of  his  good  intent, 
Shoulder'd  his  gun  with  a  gay  heart,  and 

went. 

And  in  that  paper,  while  her  fast  tears  fell, 
She  wrapt  the  lock  of  hair  she  loved  so  well, 
And  thrust  it  on  her  heart ;  and  with  sick 

sight, 

Watch' d  his  great  figure  fade  into  the  night ; 
Then  raised  her  hands  to  her  wild  gods, 

that  sped 

Above  her  in  a  whirlwind  overhead, 
And  the  pines  rock'd  in  tempest,  and  her  form 
Bent  broken  with  the  breathing  of  the  storm. 

O  little  paper  !     Blurr'd  with  secret  tears  ! 
O  blood-red  charm  !    O  thing  of  hopes  and 

fears ! 

Between  two  worlds  a  link,  so  faint,  so  slight, 
The  two  worlds  of  the  red  man  and  the 

white  ! 
Lie  on  her  heart  and  soothe  her  soul's  sad 

pain ! 

•EUREKA  HART,  DROWSIETOWN,  STATE 
OF  MAINE.' 


PART  III. 
WHITE   ROSE. 

i. 

DROWSIETOWN. 

O  so  drowsy  !    In  a  daze 
Sweating  'mid  the  golden  haze, 
With  its  smithy  like  an  eye 
Glaring  bloodshot  at  the  sky, 
And  its  one  white  row  of  street 
Carpetted  so  green  and  sweet, 
And  the  loungers  smoking  still 
Over  gate  and  window-sill ; 
Nothing  coming,  nothing  going, 
Locusts  grating,  one  cock  crowing, 
Few  things  moving  up  or  down, 
All  things  drowsy — Drowsietown  ! 

Thro*  the  fields  with  sleepy  gleam, 
Drowsy,  drowsy  steals  the  stream, 
Touching  with  its  azure  arms 
Upland  fields  and  peaceful  farms, 
Gliding  with  a  twilight  tide 
Where  the  dark  elms  shade  its  side  ; 
Twining,  pausing  sweet  and  bright 
Where  the  lilies  sail  so  white ; 
Winding  in  its  sedgy  hair 
Meadow-sweet  and  iris  fair ; 
Humming  as  it  hies  along 
Monotones  of  sleepy  song ; 
Deep  and  dimpled,  bright  nut-brown, 
Flowing  into  Drowsietown. 

Far  as  eye  can  see,  around, 
Upland  fields  and  farms  are  found, 
Floating  prosperous  and  fair 
In  the  mellow  misty  air : 
Apple-orchards,  blossoms  blowing 
Up  above, — and  clover  growing 
Red  and  scented  round  the  knees 
Of  the  old  moss-silvered  trees. 
Hark  !  with  drowsy  deep  refrain, 
In  the  distance  rolls  a  wain  ; 
As  its  dull  sound  strikes  the  ear, 
Other  kindred  sounds  grow  clear — 
Drowsy  all — the  soft  breeze  blowing, 
Locusts  grating,  one  cock  crowing, 
Cries  like  voices  in  a  dream 
Far  away  amid  the  gleam, 
Then  the  waggons  rumbling  down 
Thro'  the  lanes  to  Drowsietown. 


398 


WHITE   ROSE   AND   RED. 


Drowsy?    Yea  !— but  idle?    Nay! 
Slowly,  surely,  night  and  day, 
Humming  low,  well  greased  with  oil, 
Turns  the  wheel  of  human  toil. 
Here  no  grating  gruesome  cry 
Of  spasmodic  industry ; 
No  rude  clamour,  mad  and  mean, 
Of  a  horrible  machine  ! 
Strong  yet  peaceful,  surely  roll'd, 
Winds  the  wheel  that  whirls  the  gold. 
Year  by  year  the  rich  rare  land 
Yields  its  stores  to  human  hand — 
Year  by  year  the  stream  makes  fat 
Every  field  and  meadow-flat — 
Year  by  year  the  orchards  fair 
Gather  glory  from  the  air, 
Redden,  ripen,  freshly  fed, 
Their  bright  balls  of  golden  red. 
Thus,  most  prosperous  and  strong, 
Flows  the  stream  of  life  along 
Six  slow  days  !  wains  come  and  go, 
Wheat-fields  ripen,  squashes  grow, 
Cattle  browse  on  hill  and  dale, 
Milk  foams  sweetly  in  the  pail, 
Six  days  :  on  the  seventh  day, 
Toil's  low  murmur  dies  away — 
All  is  husht  save  drowsy  din 
Of  the  waggons  rolling  in, 
Drawn  amid  the  plenteous  meads 
By  small  fat  and  sleepy  steeds. 
Folk  with  faces  fresh  as  fruit 
Sit  therein  or  trudge  afoot, 
Brightl)  drest  for  all  to  see, 
In  their  seventh-day  finery  : 
Farmers  in  their  breeches  tight, 
Snowy  cuffs,  and  buckles  bright ; 
Ancient  dames  and  matrons  staid 
In  their  silk  and  flower'd  brocade, 
Prim  and  tall,  with  soft  brows  knitted, 
Silken  aprons,  and  hands  mitted  ; 
Haggard  women,  dark  of  face, 
Of  the  old  lost  Indian  race  ; 
Maidens  happy-eyed  and  fair, 
With  bright  ribbons  in  their  hair, 
Trip  along,  with  eyes  cast  down, 
Thro'  the  streets  of  Drowsietown. 
Drowsy  in  the  summer  day 
In  the  meeting-house  sit  they  ; 
'Mid  the  high-back' d  pews  they  doze, 
Like  bright  garden-flowers  in  rows  ; 
And  old  Parson  Pendon,  big 
In  his  gown  and  silver' d  wig, 
Drones  above  in  periods  fine 


Sermons  like  old-flavour'd  wine — 
Crusted  well  with  keeping  long 
In  the  darkness,  and  not  strong. 
O  !  so  drowsily  he  drones 
In  his  rich  and  sleepy  tones, 
While  the  great  door,  swinging  wide, 
Shows  the  bright  green  street  outside, 
And  the  shadows  as  they  pass 
On  the  golden  sunlit  grass. 
Then  the  mellow  organ  blows, 
And  the  sleepy  music  flows, 
And  the  folks  their  voices  raise 
In  old  unctuous  hymns  of  praise, 
Fit  to  reach  some  ancient  god 
Half  asleep  with  drowsy  nod. 
Deep  and  lazy,  clear  and  low, 
Doth  the  oily  organ  grow  ! 
Then  with  sudden  golden  cease 
Comes  a  silence  and  a  peace  ; 
Then  a  murmur,  all  alive, 
As  of  bees  within  a  hive  ; 
And  they  swarm  with  quiet  feet 
Out  into  the  sunny  street ; 
There,  at  hitching-post  and  gate 
Do  the  steeds  and  waggons  wait. 
Drawn  in  groups,  the  gossips  talk, 
Shaking  hands  before  they  walk  : 
Maids  and  lovers  steal  away, 
Smiling  hand  in  hand,  to  stray 
By  the  river,  and  to  say 
Drowsy  love  in  the  old  way — 
Till  the  sleepy  sun  shines  down 
On  the  roofs  of  Drowsietown. 
In  the  great  marsh,  far  beyond 
Street  and  building,  lies  the  Pond, 
Gleaming  like  a  silver  shield 
In  the  midst  of  wood  and  field  ; 
There  on  sombre  days  you  see 
Anglers  old  in  reverie, 
Fishing  feebly  morn  to  night 
For  the  pickerel  so  bright. 
From  the  woods  of  beech  and  fir, 
Dull  blows  of  the  woodcutter 
Faintly  sound  ;  and  haply,  too, 
Comes  the  cat-owl's  wild  '  tuhoo  ! ' 
Drown'd  by  distance,  dull  and  deep, 
Like  a  dark  sound  heard  in  sleep  ; — 
And  a  cock  may  answer,  down 
In  the  depths  of  Drowsietown. 


Such  is  Drowsietown — but  nay  I 
Was,  not  is,  my  song  should  say— t 


WHITE  ROSE. 


399 


Such  -was  summer  long  ago 

In  this  town  so  sleepy  and  slow. 

Change  has  come  :  thro'  wood  and  dale 

Runs  the  demon  of  the  rail, 

And  the  Drowsietown  of  yore 

Is  not  drowsy  any  more ! 

0  so  drowsy  !     In  the  haze 

Of  those  long  dead  summer  days, 
Underneath  the  still  blue  sky 

1  can  see  the  hamlet  lie — 
Like  a  river  in  a  dream 

Flows  the  little  nut-brown  stream  ; 
Yet  not  many  a  mile  away 
Flashes  foam  and  sprinkles  spray, 
Close  at  hand  the  green  marsh  flows 
Into  brackish  pools  and  sloughs, 
And  with  storm-wave  fierce  and  frantic 
Roars  the  wrath  of  the  Atlantic. 

Waken  Drowsietown  ?— The  Sea  ? 
Break  its  doze  and  reverie  ? 
Nay,  for  if  it  hears  at  all 
Those  unresisting  waters  call, 
They  are  far  enough,  I  guess, 
Just  to  soothe  and  not  distress. 
When  the  wild  nor' wester  breaks, 
And  the  sullen  thunder  shakes, 
For  a  space  the  Town  in  fear, 
Dripping  wet  with  marsh  and  mere, 
Quakes  and  wonders,  and  is  found 
With  its  ear  against  the  ground 
Listening  to  the  sullen  war 
Of  the  flashing  sea  afar  ! 
But  the  moment  all  is  done 
On  its  tear-drops  gleams  the  sun, 
Each  rude  murmur  dies  ;  and  lo  ! 
In  a  sleepy  sunny  glow, 
'Mid  the  moist  rays  slanting  down, 
Once  more  dozes  Drowsietown. 

As  the  place  is,  drowsy-eyed 
Are  the  folks  that  there  abide  ; 
Strong,  phlegmatic,  calm,  revealing 
No  wild  fantasies  of  feeling  ; 
Loving  sunshine  ;  on  the  soil 
Basking  in  a  drowsy  toil. 
Mild  and  mellow,  calm  and  clear, 
Flows  their  life  from  year  to  year — 
Each  fulfils  his  drowsy  labour, 
Each  the  picture  of  his  neighbour, 
Each  exactly,  rich  or  poor, 
What  his  father  was  before— 


O  so  drowsy !    In  a  gleam, 
Far  too  steady  to  be  Dream, 
Flows  their  slow  humanity 
Winding,  stealing,  to  the  Sea. 

Sea  ?    What  Sea  ?    The  Waters  vast, 
Whither  all  life  flows  at  last, 
Where  all  individual  motion 
Lost  in  one  imperious  ocean 
Fades,  as  yonder  river  doth 
In  the  great  Sea  at  its  mouth. 
Ah  !  the  mighty  wondrous  Deep, 
'Tis  so  near  ;— yet  half  asleep, 
Deaf  to  all  its  busy  hum, 
These  calm  people  go  and  come  ; — 
Quite  forgetting  it  is  nigh, 
Save  when  hurricanes  go  by 
With  a  ghostly  wail  o'erhead 
Shrieking  shrill — '  Bury  your  dead  ! ' 
For  a  moment,  wild-eyed,  caught 
In  a  sudden  gust  of  thought, 
Panting,  praying,  wild  of  face, 
Stand  the  people  of  the  place  ; 
But,  directly  all  is  done, 
They  are  smiling  in  the  sun — 
Drowsy,  yet  busy  as  good  bees 
Working  in  a  sunny  ease, 
To  and  fro,  and  up  and  down, 
Move  the  folks  of  Drowsietown. 

n. 

AFTER  MEETING. 

DEACON  JONES. 

Well,  winter's  over  altogether ; 

The  loon's  come  back  to  Purley  Pond  ; 
It's  all  green  grass  and  pleasant  weather 

Up  on  the  marsh  and  the  woods  beyond. 
It's  God  Almighty's  meaning  clear 
To  give  us  farmers  a  prosperous  year  ; 
Tho'  many  a  sinner  that  I  could  mention 

Is  driving  his  ploughshare  nowadays 
Clean  in  the  teeth  of  the  Lord's  intention, 

And  spiling  the  land  he  ought  to  raise. 

DEACON  HOLMES. 

I've  drained  the  marsh  by  Simpson's  build- 
ing, 
Cleared  out  the  rushes,  and  flag,  and 

weed, 

The  ground's  all  juicy,  and  looks  like  yield- 
ing, 
And  I'm  puttin'  it  down  in  pip-corn  seed. 


400 


WHITE   ROSE   AND   RED. 


How's  Father  Abel  ?    Comin*  round  ? 
Glad  the  rheumatics  have  left  him  now. 

DEACON  JONES. 

Summer's  Hrmed'cine ;  he'll  soon  be  sound, 
And  spry  as  a  squirrel  on  a  bough. 

BIRD  CHORUS. 

Chickadee  !  chickadee  ! 
Green  leaves  on  every  tree  ! 
Over  field,  over  foam, 
All  the  birds  are  coming  home. 
Honk  !  honk  !  sailing  low, 
Cried  the  gray  goose  long  ago. 
Weet !  weet !  in  the  light 
Flutes  the  phcebe-bird  so  bright. 
Chewink,  veery,  thrush  o'  the  wood, 

Silver  treble  raise  together  ; 
All  around  their  dainty  food 

Ripens  with  the  ripening  weather. 
Hear,  O  hear  ! 
In  the  great  elm  by  the  mere 
Whip-poor-will  is  crying  clear. 

MOTHER   ABNER. 

And  so  it  is  !    And  so  the  news  is  true  ! 
And  your  Eureka  has  returned  to  you  ; 
I  saw  him  in  the  church,  and  took  a  stare. 
A  Hart,  aye  every  inch,  the  tallest  there. 
You'll  hold  the  farm-land  now,  and  keep 

things  clear ; 
You  wanted  jest  a  man — Eureka's  here. 

WIDOW  HART. 

Well,  I  don't  know.     Eureka  ain't  no  hand 
At  raising  crops  or  looking  after  land  ; 
It's  been  a  bitter  trial  to  me,  neighbour, 
To  see  his  wandering  ways  and  hate  o1 

labour. 

He's  been  abroad  too  much  to  care  jest  now 
For  white  men's  ways,  and  following  the 

plough. 

MOTHER  ABNER. 

He's  a  fine  figure  and  a  handsome  face  ; 
There  ain't  his  ekal  this  day  in  the  place. 
And  if  he'd  take  a  wife  and  settle  down, 
There's  many  a  wench  would    jump    in 

Drowsietown. 

Ah  !  that's  the  only  way  to  tie  your  son, 
And  now  he's  got  the  farm  'tis  easy  done  ; 
There's  Jez'bel  Jones,  and  there's  Euphe- 

mia  Clem, 


And     Sarah     Snowe, — they're     all     good 

matches,  them. 
And  there's — why,    there    he    goes,    right 

down  the  flat, 
Looks  almost  furrin'  in  that  queer  straw 

hat; 
And  who's  that  with  him  in  the  flower' d 

chintz  dress  ? 

Why,  Phoebe  Anna  Cattison,  I  guess  ! 
That  little  mite  !     How  tiny  and  how  prim 
Trips  little  Phoebe  by  the  side  of  him  ! 
And  when  she  looks  up  in  his  face,  tehee  ! 
It's  like  a  chipmunk  looking  up  a  tree  ! 

THE  RIVER  SINGS. 

O  willow  loose  lightly 
Your  soft  long  hair  ! 
I'll  brush  it  brightly 
With  tender  care  ; 
And  past  you  flowing 

I'll  softly  uphold 
Great  lilies  blowing 

With  hearts  of  gold. 
For  spring  is  beaming, 

The  wind's  in  the  south, 
And  the  musk-rat's  swimming, 

A  twig  in  its  mouth, 
To  built  its  nest 
Where  it  loves  it  best, 
In  the  great  dark  nook 
By  the  bed  o'  my  brook. 
It's  spring,  bright  spring, 
And  blue-birds  sing  I 
And  the  fern  is  pearly 

All  day  long, 
And  the  lark  rises  early 

To  sing  a  song. 

The  grass  shoots  up  like  fingers  of  fire, 
And  the  flowers  awake  to  a  dim  desire, 
So  willow,  willow,  shake  down,  shake  down 
Your  locks  so  silvern  and  long  and  slight ; 
For  lovers  are  coming  from  Drowsietown, 
And    thou    and  I  must  be  merry  and 
bright ! 

PHOZBE  ANNA. 

This  is  the  first  fine  day  this  year : 
The  grass  is  dry  and  the  sky  is  clear  ; 
The  sun's  out  shining  ;  up  to  the  farm 
It  looks  like  summer  ;  so  bright  and  warm  ; 
There's  apple  blooms  on  the  boughs  al- 
ready, 

Long  as    your    finger    the    corn-blades 
shoot, 


WHITE  ROSE. 


401 


And  father  thinks,  if  the  sun  keeps  steady, 

'Twill  be  a  wonderful  fall  for  fruit. 
How  do  you  like  being  here  at  home  again  ? 
Reckon  you'd  rather  pack  up  and  roam 
ngain ! 

EUREKA. 
I'm  sick  o'  roaming,  I  hate  strange  places  ; 

I've  slep'   too  long  in  the  woods  and 

brakes ; 
It's  pleasure  seeing  white  folks'  faces 

After  the  b'ars,  and  the  birds,  and  the 

snakes. 

This  yer  life  is  civilisation, 
T'other's  a  heathen  dissipation  ! 
One  likes  to  die  where  his  father  before  him 
Died,  with  the  same  sky  shinin'  o'er  him. 
I've  been  a  wastrel  and  that's  the  truth, 

Earning  nought  but  a  sneer  and  a  frown  ; 
I've  wasted  the  precious  days  o'  youth, 

Instead  of  stopping  and  settling  down. 

PHCEBE  ANNA. 

But  now  the  farm  is  your  own  to  dwell  in, 
You'll  ne'er  go  back  to  the  wilderness  ? 

EUREKA. 

Waal  !    that's    a    question  !      There's    no 
tellin'  ; 

I  ain't  my  own  master  quite,  I  guess. 
Think  I  shall  have  to  go  some  day, 
And  fix  some  business  far  away. 
I — there's  your  mother  beckonin'  yonder, 

Looks  kind  o'  huffish,  you'd  better  run  ; 
(Alone,  sotto  voce}  That  girl's  a  sort  of  a 
shinin'  wonder, 

The  prettiest  pout  beneath  the  sun. 

BIRD  CHORUS. 

Chickadee  !  chickadee  ! 
Green  leaves  on  every  tree  ; 
Winter  goes,  spring  is  here  ; 
Little  mate,  we  loved  last  year. 
Cheewink,  veery,  robin  red, 

Shall  we  take  another  bride  ? 
We  have  plighted,  we  are  wed. 

Here  we  gather  happy-eyed. 
Little  bride,  little  mate, 
Shall  I  leave  you  desolate  ? 
Men  change  ;  shall  we  change  too  ? 
Men  change  ;  but  we  are  true. 
If  I  cease  to  love  thee  best, 
May  a  black  boy  take  my  nest 


EUREKA. 

Soothin'  it  is,  after  so  many  a  year, 
To  hear  the  Sabbath  bells  a-ringing  clear, 
The  air  so  cool  and  soft,  the  sky  so  blue, 
The  place  so  peaceful  and  so  well-to-do.  .  .  . 
Wonder  what  she  is  doing  this  same  day? 
Thinkin'  o'  me  in  her  wild  Injin  way, 
Listenin'    and    waitin',     dreaming    every 

minute 

The  door  will  open,  and  this  child  step  in  it. 
Poor  gal !  I  seem  to  feel  her  eyes  so  bright 
A-followin'  me  about,  morn,  noon,  and 

night ! 
Sometimes  they  make  me  start  and  thrill 

right  thro' — 

She  was  a  splendid  figure,  and  that's  true  ! 
Not  jest  like   Christian  women,  fair  and 

white, 
A  heap  more  startlin*  and  a   deal  more 

bright  ; 

And  as  for  looks,  why  many  would  prefer 
That  Phcebe  Ann,  or  some  white  gal  like 

her! 
Don't  know  !   7've  got  no  call  to  judge  ; 

but  see  ! 

The  little  white  wench  is  so  spry  and  free  ! 
And  tho'  she's  but  a  mite,  small  as  a  mouse, 
She'd  look  uncommon  pretty  in  a  house. 
No  business,  tho',  of  mine — I've  made  my 

bed, 

And  I  must  lie  in  it,  as  I  have  said. 
Ye  ...  s,  I'll  go  back— and  stay — or  bring 

her  here, 

But  there's  no  call  to  hurry  yet,  that's  clear. 
She'll  fret  and  be  impatient  for  a  while, 
And  go  on  in  the  wild  mad  Injin  style  ; 
But  she  can't  know,  for  a  clear  heathen's 

sake, 

The  sort  o'  sacrifice  I'm  fix'd  to  make. 
Some  wouldn't  do  it ;   Parson  there  would 

say 
It's  downright  throwing  next  world's  chance 

away  ; 
But  I've  .made  up  my  mind — it's  fix'd  at 

present ; 
And — there,  let's  try  to  think  of  something 

pleasant ! 

THE  CAT-OWL. 

Boohoo !  boohoo  ! 
White  man  is  not  true  ; 
I  have  seen  such  wicked  ways 
That  I  hide  me  all  the  days, 

DD 


402 


WHITE  ROSE  AND   RED. 


And  come  from  my  hole  so  deep 
While  the  white  man  lies  asleep. 
A  misanthrope  am  I, 

And,  tho'  the  skies  are  blue, 
I  utter  my  warning  cry — 

Boohoo ! 
Boohoo  !  boohoo  !  boohoo  ! 

THE  LOON. 

(Chuckling  to  himself  on  the  fond.] 

Ha !  ha !  ha  !  back  again, 
Thro"  the  frost  and  fog  and  rain  ; 
Winter's  over  now,  that's  plain. 
Ha !  ha  !  ha  !  back  again  1 
And  I  laugh  and  scream, 

For  I  love  so  well 
The  bright,  bright  bream, 

And  the  pickerel  1 
And  soft  is  my  breast, 
And  my  bill  is  keen, 
And  I'll  build  my  nest 

'Mid  the  sedge  unseen. 

I've  travell' d — I've  fish'd  in  the  sunny  south, 

In  the  mighty  mere,  at  the  harbour  mouth  ; 

I've  seen  fair  countries,  all  golden  and  gay  ; 

I've  seen  bright  pictures  that  beat  all 

wishing  ; 
I've  found  fine  colours  far  away — 

But  give  me  Purley  Pond,  for  fishing  ; 
Of  all  the  ponds,  north,  south,  east,  west, 
This  is  the  pond  I  love  the  best ; 
For  all  is  quiet,  and  few  folk  peep, 

Save  some  of  the  innocent  angling  people  ; 
And  I  like  on  Sundays,  half  asleep, 
All  alone  on  the  pool  so  deep, 
To  rock  and  hear  the  bells  from   the 

steeple. 

And  I  laugh  so  clear  that  all  may  hear 
The  loon  is  back,  and  summer  is  near. 
Ha  !  ha !  ha  !  so  merry  and  plain 
I  laugh  with  joy  to  be  home  again. 
(A  shower  passes  over  ;  all  things  sing.} 

The  swift  is  wheeling  and  gleaming, 

The  brook  is  brown  in  its  bed, 
Rain  from  the  cloud  is  streaming, 

And  the  Bow  bends  overhead. 
The  charm  of  the  winter  is  broken !  the 
last  of  the  spell  is  said  ! 

The  eel  in  the  pond  is  quick'ning, 
The  grayling  leaps  in  the  stream — 


What  if  the  clouds  are  thick'ning? 

See  how  the  meadows  gleam  1 
The  spell  of  the  winter  is  shaken  ; 
world  awakes  from  a  dream ! 

The  fir  puts  out  green  fingers, 

The  pear-tree  softly  blows, 
The  rose  in  her  dark  bower  lingers, 

But  her  curtains  will  soon  unclose, 
The  lilac  will  shake  her  ringlets  over  the 
blush  of  the  rose. 

The  swift  is  wheeling  and  gleaming, 
The  woods  are  beginning  to  ring, 
Rain  from  the  cloud  is  streaming  ; — 
There,  where  the  Bow  doth  cling, 
Summer    is    smiling    afar    off,    over    the 
shoulder  of  Spring  I 

ill. 
PHOZBE  ANNA. 

Dimpled,  dainty,  one-and-twenty, 

Rosy-faced  and  round  of  limb, 
Warm'd  with  mother-wit  in  plenty, 

Prudent,  modest,  spry  yet  prim, 
Lily-handed,  tiny-footed, 

With  an  ankle  clean  and  neat, 
Neatly  gloved  and  trimly  booted, 

Looking  nice  and  smelling  sweet ! 
Self-possess'd,  subduing  beauty 
To  a  sober  sense  of  duty, 
Chaste  as  Dian,  plump  as  Hebe, 
Such  I  guess  was  little  Phoebe. 
O  how  different  a  creature 

From  that  other  wondrous  woman  ! 
Not  a  feeling,  not  a  feature, 

Had  these  two  fair  flowers  in  common. 
One  was  tall  and  moulded  finely, 

Large  of  limb,  and  grand  of  gaze, 
Rich  with  incense,  and  divinely 

Throbbing  into  passionate  rays, — 
Lustrous-eyed  and  luscious-bosom'd, 

Beautiful,  and  richly  rare, 
As  a  passion-flower  full  blossom'd, 

Born  to  Love  and  Love's  despair. 
Such  was  Red  Rose  ;  and  the  other? 

Tiny,  prudish,  if  you  please, 
Meant  to  be  a  happy  mother, 

With  a  bunch  of  huswife's  keys. 
Prudent,  not  to  be  deluded, 
Happy-eyed  and  sober-mooded, 
Dainty,  mild,  yet  self-reliant, 

She,  as  I'm  a  worthy  singer, 


WHITE  ROSE. 


403 


Wound  our  vacillating  giant 
Round  her  little  dimpled  finger. 

Bit  by  bit,  a  bashful  wooer, 

Fascinated  unaware, 
Did  Eureka  draw  unto  her, 

Tame  as  any  dancing  bear. 
Not  a  finger  did  she  stir, 
Yet  he  glow'd  and  gazed  at  her  ! 
Not  a  loving  look  she  gave, 
Yet  he  watch' d  her  like  a  slave  ! 
He,  who  had  been  used  to  having 
Pleasures  past  all  human  craving, 
Who  had  idly  sat  and  taken 
Showers  of  kisses  on  him  shaken, 
Who  had  fairly  tired  of  passion 
Ever  felt  in  passive  fashion, 
Now  stood  blushing  like  a  baby 
In  the  careless  eyes  of  Phoebe  ! 

Fare  ye  well,  O  scenes  of  glory, 
One  bright  sheet  of  golden  sheen  ! 
Love,  the  spirit  of  my  story, 

Wakens  in  a  different  scene. 
Down  the  lanes,  so  tall  and  leafy, 

Falls  Eureka's  loving  feet, 
Following  Phoebe's,  but  in  chief  he 

In  the  kitchen  loves  to  sit, — 
Loves  to  watch  her,  tripping  ruddy 

In  the  rosy  firelight  glow, 
Loves  to  watch,  in  a  brown  study, 

The  warm  figure  come  and  go. 

Half  indifferent  unto  him, 
Far  too  wise  to  coax  and  woo  him, 
Ill-disposed  to  waste  affection, 
Full  of  modest  circumspection, 
Quite  the  bright  superior  being, 
Tho'  so  tiny  to  the  seeing, 
With  a  mind  which  penetrated, 

In  a  sly  and  rosy  mirth, 
Thro'  the  face,  and  estimated 

Grain  by  grain  the  spirit's  worth, 
Phoebe  Anna,  unenraptured, 
Led  the  creature  she  had  captured. 

What  is  Love  ?    A  shooting  star, 
Flying,  flashing,  lost  afar. 
What  is  Man  ?    A  fretful  boy, 
Ever  seeking  some  new  toy. 
What  is  Memory  ?    Alas  ! 
'Tis  a  strange  magician's  glass, 
Where  you  pictures  bright  may  mark 
If  you  hold  it  in  tke  dark. 


Thrust  it  out  into  the  sun, 
All  the  picturing  is  done, 
And  the  magic  dies  away 
In  the  golden  glow  of  day  I 


Coming  back  to  civilisation, 

Petted,  feted,  shone  on  daily, 
Was  a  novel  dissipation, 

And  Eureka  re  veil' d  gaily. 
Friendly  faces  flash'd  around  him, 

Church-bells  tinkled  in  his  ear, 
Cosy  cronies  sought  and  found  him, 

Drowsietown  look'd  bright  and  clear. 
Parson  Pendon  and  his  lady 

(Respectability  embodied) 
Welcom'd  the  stray  sheep  already, 

Matrons  smiled,  and  deacons  nodded. 
Uncle  Pete  had  left  him  lately 

Maiden  Farm  and  all  its  store, 
And  he  found  himself  prized  greatly 

As  a  worthy  bachelor. 
All  his  roaming  days  seem'd  over  1 

Like  a  beast  without  a  load, 
Grazing  in  the  golden  clover, 

In  the  village  he  abode  ! 
And  he  loved  the  tilth  and  tillage, 
All  the  bustle  of  the  village- 
Loved  the  reaping  and  the  sowing, 

Loved  the  music  of  the  mill, 
Loved  to  see  the  mowers  mowing, 
And  the  golden  grasses  growing, 

Breast-deep,  near  the  river  still. 
Civilisation  altogether 

Seem'd  exactly  to  his  notion  ! 
Life  was  like  good  harvest  weather, 

Faintly  flavoured  with  devotion, 
Ruefully  he  cogitated, 

With  the  peaceful  spire  in  sight : — 
'  Waal,  I  guess  the  thing  was  fated, 

And  it's  hard  to  set  it  right. 
Seems  a  dream,  too  !  now,  I  wonder 

If  it  seems  a  dream  to  her  \ 
After  that  first  parting  stunn'd  her, 

For  a  time  she'd  make  a  stir  ; 
P'raps,  tho1,  when  the  shock  was  over, 
Other  sentiments  might  move  her  ! 
First  she'd  cry,  next,  she'd  grow  fretful, 
Thirdly,  riled,  and  then  forgetful 
After  all  that's  done  and  said, 

Injin  blood  is  Injin  ever  1 
I'm  a  white  skin,  she's  a  red ; 

Providence  just  made  us  sever. 

Doa 


404 


WHITE  ROSE   AND  RED. 


Parson  says  that  sort  of  thing 

Isn't  moral  marrying  ! 
Tho'  the  simple  creature  yonder 

Had  no  better  education — 
Ignorance  jest  made  her  fonder, 

And  /  yielded  to  temptation. 
Here's  the  question  :  I've  been  sinning — 
Wrong,  clean  wrong,  from  the  beginning 
Can  I  make  my  blunder  better 

By  repeating  it  again? 
When  mere  Nature,  if  I  let  her, 

Soon  can  cure  the  creature's  pain  ; 
She'll  forget  me  fast  enough — 

And  she's  no  religious  feeling  ; 
Injin  hearts  are  always  tough, 

And  their  wounds  are  quick  of  healing. 
Heigho  ! ' — here  he  sighed  ;  then  seeing 

Phrebe  Ann  trip  by  in  laughter, 
Brightening  up,  the  bother' d  being 

Shook  off  care,  and  trotted  after  1 

Had  this  final  complication 

Not  been  added  to  the  rest ; 
Had  not  Fate  with  new  temptation 

Drugg'd  the  conscience  of  his  breast, 
Possibly  his  better  nature 

Might  have  triumph'd  o'er  the  treason  ; 
But  the  passions  of  the  creature 

Rose  in  league  with  his  false  reason  ; 
On  the  side  of  civilisation 

Rose  the  pretty  Civilisee  : 
In  a  flush  of  new  sensation, 

Conscience  died,  and  Shame  did  flee. 
That  bright  picture,  many-colour'd, 
Nature  had  flash'd  before  the  dullard  ; 
That  wild  ecstasy  and  rapture 
She  had  tamed  unto  his  capture — 
That  grand  form,  intensely  burning 
To  a  lightning-flash  of  yearning — 
That  fair  face  transfigur'd  brightly 
Into  starry  rapture  nightly — 
Those  large  limbs  of  living  lustre, 

Moving  with  a  flower-like  grace — 
Those  great  joys  which  hung  in  cluster, 

Like  ripe  fruit  "in  a  green  place — 
All  had  faded  from  his  vision, 

And  instead,  before  his  sight, 
Tript  the  pretty-faced  precisian, 

Deep  and  dimpled,  warm  and  white  ! 

In  her  very  style  of  looking 
There  was  cognisance  of  cooking  1 
From  her  very  dress  were  peeping 
Indications  of  housekeeping  1 


You  might  gather  in  a  minute, 

As  she  lightly  passed  you  by, 
She  could  (with  her  whole  heart  in  it !) 

Nurse  a  babe  or  make  a  pie. 
Yet  her  manner  and  expression 

Shook  the  foolish  giant's  nerve, 
With  their  quiet  self-possession 

And  their  infinite  reserve. 
In  his  former  time  the  wooing 
Had  been  all  the  females  doing ; 
He  had  waited  while  the  other 
Did  his  soul  with  raptures  smother  I 
But  'twas  quite  another  matter, 

Here  in  civilisation's  school ! 
And  his  heart  went  pitter-patter, 

And  he  trembled  like  a  fool. 
Thro*  the  church  the  road  lay  to  her  ; — 

That  was  written  on  her  face, 
Lawfully  the  man  must  woo  her 

In  the  manner  of  her  race. 
So  by  slow  degrees  he  enter' d 
Courtship's  Maze  so  mystic-centred  ! 
Round  and  round  the  pathways  wander'd, 
Made  his  blunders,  puzzled,  ponder'd  ; 
Laugh'd  at,  laughing,  scorn'd,  imploring, 
Mad,  enraged,  distraught,  adoring ; 
This  way,  that  way,  turning,  twisting  ; 
Yielding  oft,  and  oft  resisting  : 
Gasping  while  the  voice  of  Cupid 
Madden'd  him  with  '  Hither,  stupid  ! ' 
Seeking  ever  for  the  middle 
Of  the  green  and  golden  riddle — 
Oft,  just  as  he  cried,  '  I've  got  it  1 ' 
Finding  cuts  de  sac,  and  not  it ! 
Till  at  last  his  blunders  ended 
On  a  summer  morning  splendid, 
When  with  vision  glad  and  hazy, 

Seeing  Phoebe  blushing  falter, 
In  the  centre  of  the  Maze,  he 

Found  himself  before— an  Altar  I 

IV. 

NUPTIAL  SONG. 

Where  were  they  wedded?     In  the  holy 
house 

Built  up  by  busy  fingers. 
All  Drowsietown  was  quiet  as  a  mouse 

To  hear  the  village  singers. 

Who  was  the  Priest  ?  'Twas  Parson  Pendon, 

dress'd 
In  surplice  to  the  knuckles, 


WHITE   ROSE -THE    GREAT  SNOW. 


405 


Wig  powder'd,  snowy  cambric  on  his  breast, 
Silk  stockings,  pumps,  and  buckles. 

What  was  the  service  ?    'Twas  the  solemn, 

stale, 

Old-fashioned,  English  measure  : 
4  Wilt  thou  this  woman  take?  and  thou  this 

male  ? ' 
•  I  will '— '  I  will  '—with  pleasure. 

Who  saw  it  done?    The  countless  rustic 

eyes 

Of  folk  around  them  thronging. 
Who  shared  the  joy  ?    The  matrons  with 

soft  sighs, 
The  girls  with  bright  looks  longing. 

Who  was  the  bride  ?  Sweet  Phoebe,  dress'd 

in  clothes 

As  white  as  she  who  wore  'em, 
Sweet-scented,   self-possess' d, — one   bright 

White  Rose 
Of  virtue  and  decorum. 

Her  consecration  ?    Peaceful  self-control, 

And  modest  circumspection — 
The  sweet  old  service  softening  her  soul 

To  formulised  affection. 

Surveying  with  calm  eyes  the  long,  straight 

road 

Of  matrimonial  being, 
She  wore  her  wedding  clothes,  trusting  in 

God, 
Domestic,  and  far-seeing. 

With  steady  little  hand  she  sign'd  her  name, 

Nor  trembled  at  the  venture. 
What  did  the  Bridegroom  ?    Blush'd  with 
sheepish  shame, 

Endorsing  the  indenture. 

O  Hymen,  Hymen  !   In  the  church  so  calm 

Began  the  old  sweet  story, 
The   parson    smiled,    the    summer    fields 
breathed  balm, 

The  crops  were  in  their  glory 

Out  from  the  portal  came  the  wedding  crew, 

All  smiling,  palpitating  ; — 
And  there  was  Jacob  with  the  cart,  bran 
new, 

And  the  white  pony,  waiting. 


The  girls  waved  handkerchiefs,  the  village 

boys 

Shouted,  around  them  rushing, 
And  off  they  trotted  thro'  the  light  and 

noise, 
She  calm,  the  giant  blushing. 

Down  the  green  road,  along  by  glade  and 
grove, 

They  jog,  with  rein-bells  jingling, 
The  orchards  pink  all  round,  the  sun  above, 

She  cold,  Eureka  tingling. 

And    round  her  waist    his  arm  becomes 

entwined, 

But  still  her  ways  are  coolish — 
'  There's  old  Dame  Dartle  looking  !    Don't 

now !     Mind 
The  pony  !    Guess  you're  foolish  ! ' 

Who  rang  the  bells?    The  ringers  with  a 

will 

Set  them  in  soft  vibration. 
Hark  !  loud  and  clear,  there  chimes  o'er 

vale  and  hill 
The  nuptial  jubilation. 


PART  IV. 
THE   GREAT  SNOW. 

i. 

THE  GREAT  SNOW. 
'TWAS  the  year  of  the  Great  Snow. 

First  the  East  began  to  blow 
Chill  and  shrill  for  many  days, 
On  the  wild  wet  woodland  ways. 
Then  the  North,  with  crimson  cheeks, 
Blew  upon  the  pond  for  weeks, 
Chill'd  the  water  thro'  and  thro', 
Till  the  first  thin  ice-crust  grew 
Blue  and  filmy  ;  then  at  last 
All  the  pond  was  frosted  fast, 
Prison'd,  smother'd,  fetter'd  tight, 
Let  it  struggle  as  it  might. 
And  the  first  Snow  drifted  down 
On  the  roofs  of  Drowsietown. 

First  the  vanguard  of  the  Snow ; 
Falling  flakes,  whirling  slow, 
Drifting  darkness,  troubled  dream  ; 
Then  a  motion  and  a  gleam  ; 


4o6 


WHITE  ROSE  AND  RED. 


Sprinkling  with  a  carpet  white 

Orchards,  swamps,  and  woodland  ways, 
Thus  the  first  Snow  took  its  flight, 

And  there  was  a  hush  for  days. 

'Mid  that  hush  the  Spectre  dim, 
Faint  of  breath  and  thin  of  limb, 
HOAR-FROST,  like  a  maiden's  ghost, 
Nightly  o'er  the  marshes  crost 
In  the  moonlight :  where  she  flew, 

At  the  touch  of  her  chill  dress 
Cobwebs  of  the  glimmering  dew 

Froze  to  silvern  loveliness. 

All  the  night,  in  the  dim  light, 

Quietly  she  took  her  flight ; 

Thro1  the  streets  she  crept,  and  stayed 

In  each  silent  window  shade, 

With  her  finger  moist  as  rain 

Drawing  flowers  upon  the  pane  ; — 

On  the  phantom  flowers  so  drawn 

With  her  frozen  breath  breath"  d  she ; 
And  each  window-pane  at  dawn 

Turn'd  to  crystal  tracery ! 

Then  the  Phantom  Fog  came  forth, 
Following  slowly  from  the  North  ; 
Wheezing,  coughing,  blown,  and  damp, 
He  sat  sullen  in  the  swamp, 
Scowling  with  a  blood-shot  eye  ; 
As  the  canvas-backs  went  by ; 
Till  the  North-wind,  with  a  shout, 
Thrust  his  pole  and  poked  him  out ; 
And  the  Phantom  with  a  scowl, 

Black'ning  night  and  dark'ning  day, 
Hooted  after  by  the  owl, 

Lamely  halted  on  his  way. 

Now  in  flocks  that  ever  increase 
Honk  the  armies  of  the  geese, 
'Gainst  a  sky  of  crimson  red 
Silhouetted  overhead. 
After  them  in  a  dark  mass, 
Sleet  and  hail  hiss  as  they  pass, 
Rattling  on  the  frozen  lea 
With  their  shrill  artillery. 
Then  a  silence :  then  comes  on 
Frost,  the  steel-bright  Skeleton ! 
Silent  in  the  night  he  steals, 
With  wolves  howling  at  his  heels, 
Seeing  to  the  locks  and  keys 
On  the  ponds  and  on  the  leas. 
Touching  with  his  tingling  wand 
Trees  and  shrubs  on  every  hand, 


Till  they  change,  transform' d  to  sight, 
Into  dwarfs  and  druids  white, — 
Icicle-bearded,  frosty-shrouded 
Underneath  his  mantle  clouded  ; 
And  on  many  of  their  shoulders, 
Chill,  indifferent  to  beholders, 
Sits  the  barr'd  owl  in  a  heap, 
Ruffled,  dumb,  and  fast  asleep. 
There  the  legions  of  the  trees 
Gather  ghost-like  round  his  knees  ; 
While  in  cloudy  cloak  and  hood, 
Cold  he  creeps  to  the  great  wood  : — 
Lying  there  in  a  half-doze, 
While  on  finger-tips  and  toes 
Squirrels  turn  their  wheels,  and  jays 
Flutter  in  a  wild  amaze, 
And  the  foxes,  lean  and  foul, 
Look  out  of  their  holes  and  growl. 
There  he  waiteth,  breathing  cold 
On  the  white  and  silent  wold. 

In  a  silence  sat  the  Thing, 
Looking  north,  and  listening  ! 
And  the  farmers  drave  their  teams 
Past  the  woods  and  by  the  streams, 
Crying  as  they  met  together, 
With  chill  noses,  '  Frosty  weather  I ' 
And  along  the  iron  ways 
Tinkle,  tinkle,  went  the  sleighs. 
And  the  wood-chopper  did  hie, 
Leather  stockings  to  the  thigh, 
Crouching  on  the  snow  that  strew'd 
Every  corner  of  the  wood. 
Still  Frost  waited,  very  still ; 
Then  he  whistled,  loud  and  shrill ; 
Then  he  pointed  north,  and  lo  ! 
The  main  Army  of  the  Snow. 

Black  as  Erebus  afar, 

Blotting  sun,  and  moon,  and  star, 

Drifting,  in  confusion  driven, 

Screaming,  straggling,  rent  and  riven, 

Whirling,  wailing,  blown  afar 

In  an  awful  wind  of  War, 

Dragging  drifts  of  death  beneath, 

With  a  melancholy  groan, 
While  the  fierce  Frost  set  his  teeth, 

Rose  erect,  and  waved  them  on  ! 

All  day  long  the  legions  passed 
On  an  ever-gathering  blast ; 
In  an  ever-gathering  night, 
Fast  they  eddied  on  their  flight. 


THE   GREAT  SNOW. 


407 


With  a  tramping  and  a  roar, 
Like  the  waves  on  a  wild  shore  ; 
With  a  motion  and  a  gleam, 
Whirling,  driven  in  a  dream  ; 
On  they  drave  in  drifts  of  white, 
Burying  Drowsietown  from  sight, 
Covering  ponds,  and  woods  and  roads, 
Shrouding  trees  and  men's  abodes  ; 
While  the  great  Pond  loaded  deep, 
Turning  over  in  its  sleep, 
Groaned; — but  when  night  came,  forsooth, 

Grew  the  tramp  unto  a  thunder ; 
Wind  met  wind  with  wail  uncouth, 
Frost  and  Storm  fought  nail  and  tooth, 

Shrieking,  and  the  roofs  rock'd  under. 
Scared  out  of  its  sleep  that  night, 
Drowsietown  awoke  in  fright ; 
Chimney-pots  above  it  flying, 

Windows  crashing  to  the  ground, 
Snow-flakes  blinding,  multiplying, 

Snow-drift  whirling  round  and  round ; 
While,  whene'er  the  strife  seemed  dying, 
The  great  North-wind,  shrilly  crying, 

Clash' d  his  shield  in  battle-sound  ! 

Multitudinous  and  vast, 
Legions  after  legions  passed. 
Still  the  air  behind  was  drear 
With  new  legions  coming  near; 
Still  they  waver'd,  wander'd  on, 
Glimmer'd,  trembled,  and  were  gone. 
While  the  drift  grew  deeper,  deeper, 

On  the  roofs  and  at  the  doors, 
While  the  wind  awoke  each  sleeper 

With  its  melancholy  roars. 
Once  the  Moon  looked  out,  and  lo  ! 
Blind  against  her  face  the  Snow 
Like  a  wild  white  grave-cloth  lay, 
Till  she  shuddering  crept  away. 
Then  thro'  darkness  like  the  grave, 
On  and  on  the  legions  drave. 

When  the  dawn  came,  Drowsietown 

Smother'd  in  the  snow-drift  lay. 
Still  the  swarms  were  drifting  down 

In  a  dark  and  dreadful  day. 
On  the  blinds  the  whole  day  long 

Thro'  the  red  light  shadows  flitted. 
At  the  inn  in  a  great  throng 

Gossips  gather' d  drowsy- witted. 
All  around  on  the  white  lea 
Farm-lamps  twinkled  drearily ; 
Not  a  road  was  now  revealed, 

Drift,  deep  drift,  at  every  door  ; 


Field  was  mingled  up  with  field, 

Stream  and  pond  were  smother'd  o'er, 
Trees  and  fences  fled  from  sight 
In  the  deep  wan  waste  of  white. 

Many  a  night,  many  a  day, 
Pass'd  the  wonderful  array, 
Sometimes  in  confusion  driven, 
By  the  dreadful  winds  of  heaven  ; 
Sometimes  gently  wavering  by 
With  a  gleam  and  smothered  sigh, 
While  the  lean  Frost  still  did  stand 
Pointing  with  his  skinny  hand 
Northwajrd,  with  the  shrubs  and  trees 
Buried  deep  below  his  knees* 
Still  the  Snow  passed  ;  deeper  down 
In  the  snow  sank  Drowsietown. 
Not  a  bird  stayed,  big  or  small, 
Not  a  team  could  stir  at  all. 
Round  the  cottage  window-frame 
Barking  foxes  nightly  came, 
Scowling  in  a  spectral  ring 
At  the  ghostly  glimmering. 
Old  Abe  Sinker  at  the  Inn 
Heap'd  his  fire  up  with  a  grin, 
For  the  great  room,  warm  and  bright, 
Never  emptied  morn  or  night. 
Old  folks  shiver'd  with  their  bones 
Full  of  pains  and  cold  as  stones. 
Nought  was  doing,  nought  was  done, 
From  the  rise  to  set  of  sun. 
Yawning  in  the  ale-house  heat, 
Shivering  in  the  snowy  street, 
Like  dream-shadows,  up  and  down, 

With  their  footprints  black  below, 
Moved  the  folk  of  Drowsietown, 

In  the  Year  of  the  Great  Snow ! 


n. 

THE  WANDERER. 

Snowing  and  blowing,  roaring  and  rattle, 

Frost,  snow,  and  wind  are  all  busy  at  battle  ! 

O  what  a  quaking,  and  shaking,  and  call- 
ing, 

Whitely,  so  whitely,  the  snow  still  is  falling  ; 

Stone-dead  the  earth  is,  shrouded  all  over, 

White,  stiff,  and  hard  is  the  snow-sheet 
above  her, 

Deep,  deep  the  drift  is  ;  and  tho'  it  is  snow- 
ing, 

Blacker,  yet  blacker,  the  heavens  are 
growing. 


408 


WHITE   ROSE   AND  RED. 


Oh,  what  a  night  !  gather  nearer  the  fire  ! 

Pile  the  warm  pine-logs  higher  and  higher  ; 

Shut  the  black  storm  out,  close  tight  the 
shutters, 

Hark  !  how  without  there  it  moans  and  it 
mutters, 

Tearing  with  teeth,  claws,  and  fingers 
tremendous, 

Roof,  wall,  and  gable  ! — now  Angels  de- 
fend us ! 

There  was  a  roar ! — how  it  crashes  and 
darkens ! 

No  wonder  that  Phoebe  stops,  trembles, 
and  hearkens. 

For  black  as  the  skies  are,  tho'  hueless  and 

ghastly, 
Stretches  the  wold,  'mid  the  snow  falling 

fastly, 

Here  in  the  homestead  by  Pheebe  made  cosy, 
All  is  so  pleasant,  so  ruddy,  and  rosy. 
All  by  herself  in  the  tile-paven  kitchen, 
In  white  huswife's  gown,  and  in  apron  be- 
witching, 

Flits  little  Phoebe,  so  busily  making 
Corn  bread  and  rye  bread  for  Saturday's 

baking. 
See !    in  the    firelight   that  round  her  is 

gleaming, 
How  she  is  glowing,  and  glancing,   and 

beaming, 

While  all  around  her,  in  sheer  perspiration 
Of  an  ecstatic  and  warm  admiration, 
Plates,  cups,  and  dishes,  delightedly  glow- 

ing, 
Watch  her  sweet  shade  as  'tis  coming  and 

going, 
Catch    her    bright    image    as    lightly  she 

passes, 

Shine  it  about  in  plates,  dishes,  and  glasses  ! 
Often  in  wonder  all  trembling  and  quaking, 
To  feel  how  the  homestead  is  swaying  and 

shaking, 

All  in  a  clatter  they  cry  out  together, 
'  The  roof  will  be  off  in  a  minute  !    What 

weather ! ' 

....  A  face  in  the  darkness,  a  foot  on 

the  Snow, 
I     it  there?    Dost  thou  hear?     Doth  it 

come?    Doth  it  go? 
Hush  !  only  the  gusts  as  they  gather  and 

grow. 


O    Phoebe    is    busy !— with    little    flour' d 

fingers, 
Like  rosebuds  in  snow,  o'er  her  labour  she 

lingers  ; 
And  oft  when  the  tumult  is  loudest  she 

listens, 
Her  eyes  are  intent,  and  her  pretty  face 

glistens 
So  warm  in    the  firelight.      Despite    the 

storm's  crying, 
Sound,  sound  in  their  slumbers  the  far 

maids  are  lying  ; 
The  clock  with  its  round  face  perspirii 

and  blinking, 
Is  pointing  to  bed-time,  and  sleepily  winking 
The  sheep-dog  lies  basking,  the  grey  cat 

purring, 

Only  the  tempest  is  crying  and  stirring. 
The  minutes  creep  on,  and  the  wind  still 

busy, 
And  Pheebe  still  hearkens,  perplex'd, 

uneasy. 

.  .  .  .  A  face  in  the  wold  where  the  sm 

drift  lies  low. 
A  footfall  by  night  ? — or  the  winds  as  tl 

blow? 
O  hush  !  it  comes  nearer,  a  foot  on  tl 

Snow. 

Phoebe's  fond  heart  is  beginning  to  flutter, 
She    harks    for  a  footfall,   a  tap  on   tl 

shutter ; 
She  lists  for  a  voice  while  the  storm  gathf 

shriller, 
The  drift's  at  the  door,  and  the  frost  groweth 

chiller. 
She  looks  at  the  clock,  and  she  starteth 

back  sighing, 
While  the  cuckoo  leaps  out  from  his  hole 

in  it,  crying 
His  name  ten  times  over  ;  past  ten,  litt 

singer  ! 
'  O  what  keeps  Eureka?  and  where  can  he 

linger  ? ' 
The  snow  is  so  deep,  and  the  ways  are  so 

dire, 
She  thinks  ;  and  a  footfall  comes  nigher 

and  nigher. 

.  .  .  .  A  face  in  the  darkness,  a  face  full  oi 

woe, 
A  face  and  a  footfall— they  come  and  they  go, 


THE   GREAT  SNOW. 


409 


Still  nearer   and    nearer— a  foot   on    the 
Snow ! 

Eureka's  abroad  in  the  town,— but  'tis  later 
Than  Drowsietown's  bed-time.    Still  greater 

and  greater 
The  fears  of  poor  Phoebe  each  moment  are 

growing  ; 
And  sadder  and   paler    her  features    are 

glowing. 
She  steps  to  the  door — lifts  the  latch— with 

wild  scolding 
The  door  is  dashed  open,  and  torn  from 

her  holding, 
While  shivering  she  peers  on  the  blackness, 

vibrating 

With  a  trouble  of  whiteness  within  it  pulsat- 
ing ! 
The  wind  piles  the  drift  at  the  threshold 

before  her, 
The  snow  swarms  upon  her,  around  her, 

and  o'er  her, 
But  melts  on  the  warmth  of  her  face  and 

her  hands. 
A  moment  in  trouble  she  hearkens  and 

stands. 

All  black  and  all  still,  save  the  storm's  wild 

tabor ! 
And  she  closes  the  door,  and  comes  back 

to  her  labour. 
In  vain — she  grows  paler — her  heart  sinks 

within  her, 
The  cuckoo  bursts  out  in  a  flutter  (the 

sinner), 
And  chimes  the  half-hour — she  sits  now 

awaiting, 
Her  heart  forebodes  evil,   her  mind  still 

debating  ; 
The  drift  is  so  deep— could  a  false  step 

within  it 
Have   led    to    his   grave  in  one   terrible 

minute  ? 
Could  his  foot  have  gone  wand' ring  away 

in  the  wold  there, 
While  frozen  and  feeble  he  sank  in  the  cold 

there  ? 
Tis  his  foot !  .  .  .  Nay,   not  yet !  ... 

There  he's  tapping,  to  summon 
His  wife  to  the  door  !     Nay,  indeed,  little 

woman ! 
'Tis  his  foot  at  the  door !— and  he  listens  to 

hear  her  ! 


Nay,  not  yet ;  yet  a  footfall  there  is,  com- 
ing nearer, 

A  face  in  the  darkness,  a  foot  on  the  Snow, 
Nearer  it  comes  to  the  warm  window-glow  ; 
O  hush !  thro'  the  wind,  a  foot-fall  on  the 
Snow. 

Nowheark,  Phoebe,  heark !— But  shehearks 

not ;  for  dreaming, 
Her  soft  eyes  are  fixed  on  the  fire's  rosy 

gleaming  ; 
Hands  crossed  on  her  knees  she  rocks  to 

and  fro ; ' 
O  heark !  Phoebe,  heark  !  'tis  a  foot  on  the 

Snow. 
O  heark !  Phoebe,  heark  !  and  flit  over  the 

floor, 
'Tis  a  foot  on  the  Snow  !  'tis  a  tap  at  the 

door ! 
Low,  faint  as  hail  tapping.  .  .  Upstarting, 

she  hearkens. 
It  ceases.      The  firelight  sinks  low,   the 

room  darkens. 
She  listens  again.     All  is  still.    The  wind 

blowing, 
The  thrill  of  the  tempest,  the  sound  of  the 

snowing. 

Hush  again  !  something  taps— a  low  mur- 
mur is  heard. 
'  Come  in,'  Phoebe  cries ;  but  the  latch  is 

not  stirred. 

Her  heart's  failing  fast ;  superstitious  and 
mute 

She  stands  and  she  trembles,  and  stirs  not 
a  foot. 

She  hears  a  low  breathing,  a  moaning,  a 
knock, 

Between  the  wind's  cry  and  the  tick  of  the 
clock : 

Tap  !  tap !  .  .  with  an  effort  she  shakes 
off  her  fear, 

Makes  one  step  to  the  door ;  again  pauses 
to  hear. 

The  latch  stirs  ;  in  terror  and  desperate 
haste 

She  opens  the  door,  shrinking  back  pallid- 
faced, 

And  sees  at  the  porch,  with  a  thrill  of 
affright, 

'Mid  the  gleaming  of  snow  and  the  dark- 
ness of  night, 

A  shape  like  a  Woman's,  a  tremulous  form 


4io 


WHITE   ROSE  AND  RED. 


White  with  the  snow-flakes  and  bent  with 

the  storm  ! 
Great  eyes  looking  out  through  a  black 

tatter'd  hood, 
With  a  gleam  of  wild  sorrow  that  thrills 

through  the  blood, 

A  hand  that  outreaches,  a  voice  sadly  strung, 
That  speaks  to  her  soul  in  some  mystical 

tongue  ! 

The  face  in  the  darkness,  the  foot  on  the  Snow, 
They  have  come,  they  are  here,  with  their 

weal  and  their  woe  : 
O  long  was  the  journey !  the  wayfarer  slow  ! 

Now  Phoebe  hath  courage,  for  plainly  the 

being 
She  looks  on  is  mortal,  though  wild  to  the 

seeing— 
Tall,  spectral,  and  strange,  yet  in  sorrow  so 

human — 
And  the  eyes,  though  so  wild,  are  the  eyes 

of  a  woman. 
Her  face  is  all  hid  ;  but  her  brow  and  her 

hands, 
And  the  quaint  ancient    cloak    that    she 

wears  as  she  stands, 
Are  those  of  the  red  race  who  still  wander 

scatter'd — 
The  gipsies  of  white  towns,  dishonour'd, 

drink-shatter'd. 
And  strange,  too,  she  seems  by  her  tongue  ; 

yet  her  words  are 

As  liquid  and  soft  as  the  notes  of  a  bird  are. 
All  this  in  a  moment  sees  Phoebe  ;  then  lo  ! 
She  sees  the  shape  staggering  in  from  the 

snow, 

Revealing,  as  in  to  the  fire-gleam  she  goes, 
A  face  wild  with  famine,  and  haggard  with 

woes, 
For  her  hood  falls  away,   and  her  head 

glimmers  bare, 

And  loosen'd  around  falls  her  dank  drip- 
ping hair, 
And  her  eyes  gleam  like  death — she  would 

fall  to  the  earth, 
But  the  soft  little  hands  of  kind  Phoebe 

reach  forth, 
And  lead  her,    half   swooning,  half  con- 
scious, until 
She  sinks  in  a  chair  by  the  fire  and  is  still ; 
Still,  death-like, — while  Phoebe  kneels  down 

by  her  chair, 


And  chafes  her  chill  hands  with  a  motherly 


The  face  is  upon  her,  it  gleams  in  the  glow, 
She  hears  a  voice  warning,    still  dreadfi: 

and  low, 
Far  back  lies  the  footprint,  a  track  in 

Snow. 

The  woman  was  ghost-like,  yet  woi 

fair 
Through  the  gray  cloud  of  famine,  t 

of  despair, 
Her    face    hunger'd    forth — 'twas    a 

woman's  face, 
Without  the  sunk  eyeball,  the  taint  of 

race  ; 
With  strange  gentle  lines  round  the 

of  her,  cast 

By  moments  of  being  too  blissful  to  last. 
Her  cloak  fallen  wide,  as  she  sat 

distraught, 
Revealed  a  strange  garment  with 

enwrought 
In  silk  and  old  beads — it  had  once 

most  bright — 
But  frayed  with  long  wearing  by  day 

by  night. 
Mocassins  she  wore,  and  they,  too,   had 

been  gay, 
And  now  they  were  ragged  and  rent  by  the 

way  ; 
And  bare  to  the  cold  was  one  foot,  soft  and 

red, 
And  frozen  felt  both,  and  one  trickled  and 

bled. 

The  face  of  the  stranger,  'tis  worn  with  its 

woe, 
It  comes  to  thee,  Phoebe,  but  when  shall  it 

go? 
Far  back  go  the  footprints  ;  see !  black  in 

the  Snow. 

But  look !  what  is  that  ?  lo  !  it  lies  on  her 

breast, 

A  small  living  creature,  an  infant  at  rest ! 
So  tiny,  so  shrivell'd,  a  mite  of  red  clay, 
Warm,  mummied,  and  wrapt  in  the  Indian 

way. 

It  opens  its  eyes,  and  it  shrivels  red  cheeks ; 
It  thrusts  out  its  hand  to  the  face,  and  it 

speaks 


THE   GREAT  SNOW. 


411 


With  a  cry  to  the  heart  of  the  mother  ;  and 

lo! 
She  stirs  from  her  swoon,  and  her  famish'd 

cheeks  glow, 

She  rolls  her  wild  eyes  at  the  cry  of  distress, 
And  her  weak  hands  instinctively  open  her 

dress 
That  the  babe  may  be  fed  ;  and  the  touch 

of  the  child 
When  it  comes  to  her  bosom,  warm,  milky, 

and  mild, 
Seems  blissful — she  smiles — O,  so  faintly  ! 

— is  blest 

To  feel  its  lips  draw  at  the  poor  weary  breast. 
She  closes  her  eyes,  she  is  soothed,  and  her 

form 
Within  the  great  firelight  grows  happy  and 

warm. 
She  hears  not  the  wind,  and  she  seems  in  a 

dream, 
Till  her  orbs  startle  open  amid  the  glad 

gleam  ; 
Her  looks  fall  on  Phoebe,  who  trembles  for 

pity; 
She  holds  out  her  hands  with  a  cry  of 

entreaty ; 
Her  thoughts  flow  together — she  knows  the 

bright  place, 
She  feels  the  sweet  firelight,  she  sees  the 

kind  face — 
For  Phoebe  unloosens  her  poor  dripping 

cloak, 
And  its  damp  rises  up  in  the  kitchen  like 

smoke ; 
And   Phoebe,  with   tender    and    matronly 

grace, 
Is  wiping  the  snow  and  the  wet  from  her 

face. 
She  looks,  sinks  again,  speaks  with  quick 

birdlike  cries, 
In  her  own  thrilling  speech  ;  but  her  voice 

breaks  and  dies, 
And  her  tears,  through  shut  eyelids,  ooze 

slowly  and  blindly 
On  the  white  little  hands  that  are  touching 

her  kindly. 

A  face  in  the  darkness,  a  face  full  of  woe, 
Deep,  deep,  are  the  white  ways,  and  bleak 

the  winds  blow  ; 

O,  long  was  the  journey,  the  wayfarer  slow, 
O,  look !  black  as  death,  stretch  the  prints 

in  the  Snow. 


in. 
RETROSPECT  :  THE  JOURNEY. 

A  footprint — trace  it  back.     O  God  ! 

The  bleeding  feet,  the  weary  road. 

Fly,  Fancy,  as  the  eagle  flies, 

With  beating  heart  and  burning  eyes, 

Fly  on  the  north-wind's  breath  of  power, 

Beat  mile  by  mile,  and  hour  by  hour, 

Southward,  still  southward  :  shouldst  thou 

tire, 

Rest  with  the  solar  sphere  of  fire, 
Then  rise  again  and  take  thy  flight 
Across  the  continent  in  white, 
And  track,  still  track,  as  thou  dost  go 
This  bleeding  footprint  in  the  snow  ! 
Fly  night  by  night,  or  day  by  day, 
Count  the  long  hours,  watch  the  wild  way  ; 
Then  see,  beneath  thee  sailing  swift 
The  white  way  melteth,  and  the  drift 
Gathers  no  longer  ;  and  instead 
Of  snow  a  dreary  rain  is  shed, 
On  grassy  ways,  on  dreary  leas, 
And  sullen  pools  that  do  not  freeze. 
Now  must  thy  keen  eye  look  more  near 
To  trace  the  bloody  footprint  here  ; 
But  see  !  still  see  !  it  can  be  traced 
On  the  wet  pastures  of  the  waste ; 
On  !  on,  still  on  !  still  southward  sail, 
While  tall  trees  shake  in  the  shrill  gale, 
And  great  streams  gather,  and  things  green 
Begin  to  show  thro'  the  dim  sheen. 
Here  thro"  a  mighty  wood  the  track 
Errs  like  a  silk  thread  slowly  back, 
And  here  birds  singing  go  and  come, 
Tho'  far  away  the  world  is  dumb. 
A  river,  and  the  track  is  lost. 
But  when  the  stream  is  safely  cross'd 
Again,  upon  the  further  brim, 
The  drop  of  blood,  the  footprint  dim ! 
O  winged  thought,  o'er  half  a  world 
Thou  sailest  with  great  wings  unfurl' d, 
From  white  to  dark,  from  dark  to  bright, 
From  north  to  south,  thou  takest  flight, 
Passing  with  constant  waft  of  wing 
From  winter  climes  to  climes  of  spring, 
Swiftly  thou  goest,  and  still  thy  gaze 
Follows  the  footprint  thro'  wild  ways  ; 
Swiftly  thou  speedest  south — O  God ! 
A  thousand  leagues  of  weary  road  ! 

A  thousand  leagues  !  O  see,  the  track, 
Clear  to  the  soul's  eye,  wavers  back 


412 


WHITE  ROSE  AND  RED. 


Dim  yet  unbroken,  linking  slow 

Winter  with  spring,  sunshine  with  snow, 

The  dead  leaf  with  the  leaf  still  blowing, 

The  frozen  stream  with  the  stream  flowing ; 

Linking  and  binding  silently 

Forgetfulness  with  memory, 

Love  living  with  love  long  at  rest, 

A  burning  with  a  frozen  breast, 

A  Sunbeam  Soul  all  light  and  seeing 

With  a  mere  Beaver  of  a  being. 

Turn  back,  my  Spirit,  turn  and  trace 
The  woman  from  her  starting  place, 
Whence  with  fix'd  features  and  feet  free 
She  plunged  into  the  world's  great  Sea, — 
A  fair  sweet  swimmer,  strong  of  limb, 
Most  confident  in  God,  and  him, 
And  found  herself  by  wild  winds  blown, 
In  a  great  waste,  alone,  alone  ! 

Long  with  the  patience  of  her  race, 
Had  Red  Rose  waited  for  the  face 
That  came  not,  listen'd  for  the  voice 
That  made  her  soul  leap  and  rejoice. 
They  came  not :  all  was  still.     For  days, 
She  like  a  fawn  in  the  green  ways 
Wander' d  alone  ;  and  night  by  night 
She  watch'd  heaven's  eye  of  liquid  light 
With  eyes  as  luminous  as  theirs, 
'Mid  tremulous  sighs  and  panted  prayers. 
He  came  not :  all  was  still :  her  tread 
Grew  heavier  on  the  earth,  her  head 
Hung  sadder,  and  her  weeping  eyes 
Look'd  more  on  earth  than  on  the  skies : 
Like  a  dead  leaf  she  droop'd  in  woe, 
Until  one  day,  with  a  quick  throe, 
She  turn'd  to  crimson  as  she  wept, 
And  lo  !  within  her  something  leapt ! 

Flesh  of  her  flesh,  the  blossom  broke, 
Blood  of  her  blood,  she  felt  it  stir, 

Within  her  life  another  woke 
With  still  small  eyes,  and  look'd  at  her  ! 

And  with  a  strange  ecstatic  pain, 

She  breathed,  and  felt  it  breathe  again. 

She  seem'd  to  see  it  night  and  day, 

Coming  along  from  far  away 

Down  a  green  path,  and  with  fierce  flame 

She  rush'd  to  meet  it  as  it  came, 

But  as  she  rush'd  the  shape  did  seem 

Suddenly  to  dissolve  in  dream, 

And  daily  she  stood  hungering  sore, 

Till  far  off  it  arose  once  more. 


But  as  the  life  within  her  grew 

A  horror  took  away  her  breath, 
Lest  when  her  cruel  kinsmen  knew 

Her  secret,  they  should  deal  her  death. 
For  now  the  aged  Chief,  with  whom 
Her  happy  life  had  broke  to  bloom, 
Along  the  dark  deep  path  had  wound 
That  leads  to  God's  great  hunting-grour 
And  a  young  brave  of  the  red  band 
Was  proudly  wooing  for  her  hand  ; — 
Not  in  white  fashion  fervently, 
Not  with  wild  vows  and  on  his  knee  ; 
Rather  a  proud  majestic  wooer 
Who  felt  his  suit  an  honour  to  her, 
And  who  his  formal  presents  sent 
In  calm  assumption  of  consent, 
And  never  dream1  d  the  maid  would  dare 
To  turn  her  tender  eyes  elsewhere  ; — 
Nor  dared  she  openly  disdain 
A  suit  so  solemn  and  so  plain  ; 
But  with  a  smile  half  agonized 
She  (as  we  whites  say)  temporized  ! 

She  found  two  friendly  women,  who, 

Tho'  hags  in  form,  were  kind  and  true, 

And  with  their  aid,  when  the  hour  came, 

She  bare  her  child  and  hid  her  shame. 

As  Eve  bare  Cain,  upon  a  bed 

Of  balsam  and  of  hemlock,  spread 

By  those  kind  hands,  in  the  deep  woods, 

Amid  the  forest  solitudes, 

With  myriad  creatures  round  her  flying, 

And  every  creature  multiplying  ; 

In  the  warm  greenwood,  hid  from  sight, 

She  held  her  babe  to  the  glad  light, 

And  brighten'd.     As  she  linger'd  there, 

She  had  a  dream  most  sadly  fair : 

She  seem'd  upon  a  river-side, 

Gazing  across  a  crystal  tide, 

And  o'er  the  tide  in  dying  swells 

There  came  a  burthen  as  of  bells 

Out  of  a  mist ;  then  the  mist  clear' d, 

And  on  the  further  bank  appear'd 

A  dim  shape  fondly  beckoning — 

Her  warrior  tall,  her  heart's  white  King ! 

She  cried,  and  woke;  the  dream  was  nougl 

But  ever  after  her  wild  thought 

Yearn' d  with  an  instinct  mad  and  dumb 

To  seek  him,  since  he  did  not  come. 

She  thought,  '  My  warrior  beckons  me ! 

He  would  be  here  if  he  were  free. 

And  if  I  stay  my  kinsmen  wild 

Will  surely  slay  me  and  the  child  ; 


THE   GREAT  SNOW. 


413 


But  there,  with  him  in  that  fair  place, 

Where  he  is  chief  of  his  own  race, 

All  will  be  well ;  for  he  is  good, 

Of  milder  race  and  gentler  blood  ; 

And  tho'  I  die  upon  the  way 

'Twill  not  be  worse  than  if  I  stay, 

Butcher'd  and  shamed  in  all  men's  sight 

When  my  sad  secret  comes  to  light. 

'Tis  well !  this  paper  in  my  hand 

Will  guide  my  footsteps  thro'  the  land, 

And  when  I  strengthen  I  will  fly, 

And  I  will  find  my  lord,  or  die  ! ' 

'Twas  thought,  'twas  done ;  at  dead  of  night, 

She  clasp'd  her  infant  and  took  flight. 

One  guide  she  had— the  luminous  star, 
On  the  horizon  line  afar  ; 
For  thither  oft  Eureka's  hand 
Had  pointed,  telling  her  his  land 
Lay  thitherward  :  gazing  thereon, 
That  night  she  busied  to  be  gone, 
It  seem'd  a  lamp  that  he  had  placed 
To  guide  her  footsteps  o'er  the  waste. 
She  gather'd  food,  then  to  her  back 
Attach'd  the  babe,  and  took  the  track. 
Waving  her  hands  in  wild  '  adieu ' 
To  those  kind  women  dark  of  hue, 
Who  crouching  on  a  dark  ascent 
Moan'd  low,  and  watch'd  her  as  she  went. 
There  shone  the  star  liquid  and  clear, 
His  voice  seem'd  calling  in  her  ear, 
The  night  was  warm  as  her  desire, 
And  forth  she  fled  on  feet  of  fire. 

One  guide  ;  she  had  another  too  : 
A  crumpled  paper  coarse  to  view, 
Wherein  she  had  kept  with  tender  care 
A  little  lock  of  precious  hair, 
And  on  the  paper  this  was  written  plain  : 
'  EUREKA  HART,  DROWSIETOWN,  STATE 
OF  MAINE.' 

O  poor  dark  bird,  nought  still  knew  she 
Of  this  wild  world's  geography  ! 
Less  than  the  swallow  sailing  home, 
Less  than  the  petrel  'mid  the  foam, 
Less  than  the  mallard  winging  fast, 
O'er  solitary  fens  and  vast, 
To  seek  his  birthplace  far  away 
In  regions  of  the  midnight  day. 
She  only  knew  that  somewhere  there, 

In  some  strange  land  afar  or  near, 
Under  that  star  serene  and  fair, 

He  waited  ;  and  her  soul  could  hear 


His  summons  ;  even  as  a  dove 

Her  soul's  wild  pinions  she  unfurl'd, 

And  sought  in  constancy  and  love 
Her  only  refuge  in  the  world  ! 

A  footprint — trace  it  on  ! — 

For  days 

Her  path  was  on  great  pasture  ways  : 
League  after  league  of  verdurous  bloom 
Of  star-like  flowers  and  faint  perfume, 
And  from  her  coming  leapt  in  fear 
The  antelope  and  dappled  deer  ; 
And  everywhere  around  her  grew 
Ripe  fruit  and  berries  that  she  knew, 
While  glistening  in  the  golden  gleam 
Glanced  many  a  mere  and  running  stream. 
A  happy  land  of  flocks  and  herds, 
And  many-colour'd  water-birds ! 
Oft,  sailing  with  her  as  she  went, 
The  eagle  eddied  indolent 
On  soft  swift  wing  ;  and  with  his  wild 
Dark  dewy  eye  glanced  at  her  child, 
Nor  till  she  scream'd  and  arms  upthrew, 
Turn'd,  and  on  sullen  wing  withdrew. 
But  sweet  it  was  by  night  to  rest 
And  give  her  little  babe  the  breast, 
And  O  each  night  with  eyes  most  dim 
She  felt  one  night  more  near  to  him  : 
And  all  the  pains  of  the  past  day, 
With  all  the  perils  of  the  way, 
Seem'd  as  a  dream  ;  and  lo  !  afar 
She  saw  the  smiling  of  the  Star. 

'Twere  but  a  weary  task  to  trace 
Her  footprint  on  from  place  to  place, 
From  day  to  day  ;  to  sing  and  tell 
What  daily  accidents  befell, 
What  dangers  threaten'd  her,  what  eyes 
Watch'd  her  go  by  in  wild  surprise, 
What  prospects  blest  her,  where  and  when 
She  look'd  on  life  and  met  with  men. 
Enough  to  say,  tho'  light  and  dark, 
Straight,  as  an  arrow  to  its  mark, 
The  woman  flew  ;  wise  in  the  ways 
Of  her  own  race,  she  hid  from  gaze 
When  flitting  forms  against  the  sky 
Warn'd  her  that  Indians  might  be  nigh  ; 
And  when  the  wild  beast  dreadful-eyed 
Approach' d  her,  with  shrill  shriek  she  cried, 
Until  the  bloody  coward  shook 
Before  the  red  rage  of  her  look. 
And  tho'  the  prospect  changed  all  days, 
It  did  not  change  to  her ;  whose  gaze 


414 


WHITE  ROSE  AND  RED. 


Saw  these  things  only  :  the  white  star 
On  the  horizon  line  afar, 
And  the  quick  beckoning  of  a  hand 
Out  of  another,  sweeter  land. 

The  long  sad  road — the  way  so  dreary 

The  very  Fancy  falters  weary  ! 

The  very  soul  is  dazed,  and  shows 

Only  a  gleam  of  wild  tableaux  : 

In  midst  of  each  that  shape  of  woe 

Still  straggling  northward — slow,  slow,  slow. 

...  A  river  deep.     She  cannot  find 
A  wading-place  to  suit  her  mind  ; 
But  on  the  bank  sets  quietly, 
Amid  the  sunflowers  tall  as  she, 
Her  little  babe  :  then  slips  her  dress 
And  stands  in  mother-nakedness ; 
Then  in  a  bundle  on  her  head 
She  ties  her  raiment  yellow  and  red, 
And  swimming  o'er  the  waters  bright, 
With  glistening  limbs  of  liquid  light, 
Sets  down  her  burden  dry,  and  then, 
With  swift  stroke  sailing  back  again, 
Seeks  the  small  babe  where  it  doth  lie, 
And  with  her  right  hand  holds  it  high, 
While  with  the  other  slow  she  swims, 
Trailing  her  large  and  liquid  limbs  ; 
Then  dripping  wades  to  the  far  shore, 
And  clothes  her  loveliness  once  more  .  .  . 

...  On  a  lone  plain  she  now  is  found, 
Where  troglodytes  dwell  underground. 
Wild  settlers  peering  from  their  caves, 
Like  dead  men  moving  in  their  graves, 
Rise  round  her  as  she  comes,  and  glare 
With  hungry  eyes  thro"  horrent  hair  ; 
But  they  are  gentle,  and  they  give 
Herbs  and  black  bread  that  she  may  live, 
And  in  their  caves  the  weary  one 
Rests  till  the  rising  of  the  sun  ; 
Then  the  wild  shapes  around  her  stand 
Reading  the  paper  in  her  hand, 
And  point  her  northward  ;  and  she  flies 
Fleet-footed,  while  with  wandering  eyes 
They  stand  and  watch  her  shape  fade  dim 
Across  the  dark  horizon-rim  .  .  . 

.  .  .  She  stands  on  a  great  river's  bank, 
'Mid  noxious  weeds  and  sedges  dank  ; 
And  on  the  yellow  river's  track, 
Jagged  with  teeth  like  snags  jet  black, 
The  ferryman  in  his  great  boat, 
A  speck  on  the  broad  waste,  doth  float, 


Approaching  to  the  water's  side, 
But  lengthways  drifting  with  the  tide. 
She  leaps  into  the  boat,  and  o'er 
The  waste  to  the  dark  further  shore, 
Slowly  they  journey  ;  as  he  rows 
The  paper  to  the  man  she  shows, 
Who  reads  ;  and  as  she  springs  to  land, 
He  too  points  northward  with  his  hand  .  . 

.  .  .  See,  with  a  crimson  glare  of  light, 
A  log-town  burneth  in  the  night ! 
And  flying  forth  with  all  their  goods 
Into  the  sandy  solitudes, 
The  people  wild,  with  bloodless  cheeks, 
Glare  at  a  wanderer  who  speaks 
In  a  strange  tongue  ;  but  as  they  fly 
Are  dumb,  and  answer  not  her  cry  ... 

.  .  .  Now  thro'  a  land  by  the  red  sun 
Scorch' d  as  with  fire,  the  lonely  one 
Treads  slowly  ;  and  ere  long  she  hears 
The  sharp  cry  of  shrill  overseers, 
Driving  black  gangs  that  toiling  tramp 
Thro'  cotton  fields  and  sugar  swamp. 
Here  first  the  hand  of  man  is  raised 
To  harm  her — for  with  eyes  amazed 
She  nears  a  City,  and  is  cast 
Into  a  slave-pen  foul  and  vast, 
Seized  as  an  Ethiop  slave.     From  thence 
She  in  an  agony  intense 
Is  thrust ;  but  not  ere  eager  eyes 
Have  mark'd  her  beauty  as  a  prize. 
But  God  is  good,  and  one  blest  day 
She  hears  upon  the  burning  way 
An  aged  half-caste  burnt  and  black 
Speak  in  her  tongue  and  answer  back. 
These  twain  wring  hands  upon  the  road, 
And  in  the  stranger's  poor  abode 
She  sleeps  that  night  ;  but  with  the  sun 
She  wakens,  and  is  pointed  on  ... 

.  .  .  Now  in  a  waggon  great  she  lies, 
And  shaded  from  the  brazen  skies, 
Slowly  she  jogs,  and  all  at  rest 
She  gives  her  little  babe  the  breast. 
Happy  she  rests  ;  hears  in  her  dream 
The  driver's  song,  the  jingling  team. 
With  jet  black  cheek  and  bright  red  lip, 
The  negro  drives  and  cracks  his  whip, 
Singing  plantation  hymns  to  God, 
And  grinning  greetings  with  a  nod  .  .  . 

.  .  .  Now,  toiling  on  a  dusty  way, 
She  begs  her  bread  from  day  to  day, 


THE   GREAT  SNOW. 


4IS 


And  some  are  good  to  her  and  mild, 
And  most  are  soften'd  by  the  child. 
Once,  as  she  halts  at  a  great  door, 
Hungry  and  weary,  sick  and  sore, 
A  lovely  lady  white  as  milk 
Glides  past  her  in  her  rustling  silk  ; 
Then  pauses,  questioning,  and  sees 
The  sleeping  babe  upon  her  knees, 
And  takes  the  paper  from  her  hand, 
And  reading  it  doth  understand  ; 
Then  stoops  to  kiss  the  child  with  cold 
Kind  lips,  and  gives  the  mother  gold  .  .  . 

.  .  .  Now  in  a  mighty  boat,  among 
A  crowd  of  people  strange  of  tongue, 
She  saileth  slow,  with  wandering  sight, 
On  a  vast  river  day  and  night ; 
All  day  the  prospect  drifteth  past — 
Swamp,  wood,  and  meadow,  fading  fast, — 
With  lonely  huts,  and  shapes  that  stand 
On  the  stream's  bank,  and  wave  the  hand  ; 
All  night  with  eyes  that  look  aloft, 
Or  close  in  sleep,  she  sails ;  but  oft 
The  blackness  takes  a  deeper  frown, 
And  the  wild  eyeballs  of  a  town 
Flash  open  as  the  boat  goes  by, 
And  she  awakens  with  a  cry  .  .  . 

On,  on,  and  on — O  the  blind  quest, 
The  throbbing  heart,  the  aching  breast ! 
And  O  the  faith,  more  steadfast  far 
Than  aught  on  earth,  or  any  star  ; 
The  faith  that  never  ceased  to  shine, 
The  strength  of  constancy  divine, 
The  will  that  warm'd  her  as  she  went 
Across  a  mighty  continent, 
Unknown,  scarce  help'd,  from  land  to  land, 
With  that  poor  paper  in  her  hand  ! 

The  vision  falls.     The  figure  fades 
Amid  the  lonely  forest  glades, 
Fringing  the  mightly  inland  seas. 
I  see  her  still ;  and  still  she  flees 
Onward,  still  onward  ;  tho"  the  wind 
Blows  cold,  and  nature  looks  unkind  : 
The  dead  leaves  fall  and  rot ;  the  chill 
Damp  earth-breath  clings  to  vale  and  hill, 
The  birds  are  sailing  south  ;  and  hark ! 
As  she  fares  onward  thro'  the  dark, 
The  honking  wild  geese  swiftly  sail 
Amid  a  slowly  gathering  gale. 
All  darkens ;  and  around  her  flow 
The  cold  and  silence  of  the  Snow. 


There,  she  is  lost ;  in  that  white  gleam 
She  fadeth,  let  her  fade,  in  dream  ! 
Poor  bird  of  the  bright  summer,  now 
She  feels  the  kisses  on  her  brow 
Of  Frost  and  Fog  ;  and  at  her  back 
Another  Shadow  keeps  the  track. 
'Tis  winter  now  ;  and  birds  have  flown 
Southward,  to  seek  a  gladder  zone  ; 
One,  only  one,  doth  northward  fare, 
And  dreams  to  find  her  summer  there. 
God  help  her  !  look  not !  let  her  go 
Into  the  realm  of  the  Great  Snow  ! 

IV. 

THE  JOURNEY'S  END. 

Back  in  a  swoon,  with  haggard  face, 
Falleth  the  woman  of  wild  race, 
Dumb,  cold  as  stone,  her  weary  eyes 
Fix'd  as  in  very  death  she  lies — 
While  little  Phoebe  trembling  stands, 
Wetting  her  lips,  chafing  her  hands, 
Trembling,  almost  afraid  to  stir 
For  wonder,  as  she  looks  at  her  : 
So  weird,  so  wild  a  shape,  she  seems 
Like  some  sad  spirit  seen  in  dreams  ; 
Beauteous  of  face  beyond  belief, 
And  yet  so  worn  with  want  and  grief. 

The  clock  ticks  low  within.     Without 
The  wind  still  wanders  with  shrill  shout. 
The  cuckoo  strikes  the  hour — midnight  \ 
And  Phcebe  starteth  in  affright. 

'  O  what  can  keep  Eureka  still  ? ' 
She  thinks,  and  listens  with  a  thrill 
For  his  foot's  sound.     It  doth  not  come. 
The  clock  ticks  low.     All  else  is  dumb. 
And  still  the  woman  lieth  there, 
Down  drooping  in  the  great  arm-chair, 
With  hanging  hands,  chin  on  her  breast, 
And  'neath  her  cloak  the  babe  at  rest. 
She  doth  not  breathe,  she  doth  not  moan, 
But  lieth  like  a  thing  of  stone. 
'  O  God,'  thinks  Phcebe,  deadly  white, 
'  If  she  be  dead  ! '  and  faint  with  fright, 
Chafeth  the  fingers  marble  cold 
That  seem  to  stiffen  in  her  hold. 
She  cannot  stir,  she  cannot  move, 
To  wake  the  maids  who  sleep  above  ; 
Her  heart  is  fluttering  in  its  fear, 
'  Eureka  !     O  that  he  were  here  ! ' 

[He  hurries  not !     Perchance  some  sense 
Of  danger  may  detain  him  hence. 


WHITE  ROSE  AND  RED. 


He  would  not  hasten,  if  he  knew 
The  curious  sight  he  has  to  view. 
Few  mortal  husbands,  red  or  white, 
Would  care  to  wear  his  shoes  this  night.] 

'  What  can  she  be? '  thinks  little  Phoebe, 
1  Some  Indian  tramp — a  beggar  maybe — 
And  yet  she's  got  a  different  mien 
To  such  of  these  as  I  have  seen. 
Her  face  is  like  a  babe's— she's  young, 
And  she  can  speak  no  other  tongue 
Than  Indian.     When  she  spoke  her  words 
Came  like  the  gurgling  notes  of  birds. 
Poor  thing  !  and  out  on  such  a  night, 
When  all  the  world  is  wild  and  white 
With  the  Great  Snow.    And  O,  to  see 
The  little  babe  upon  her  knee  ! 
I  wonder  now,  if  I  should  take  it 
From  her  cold  bosom,  I  should  wake  it- 
Poor  little  child  1 '    And  as  she  spake 
Those  words  she  saw  the  baby  wake, 
Sweet-smiling  in  the  fire's  red  streaks, 
With  beaded  eyes  and  rosy  cheeks. 
Then  Phoebe  started.    '  Why,'  thought  she, 
•  The  babe  is  near  as  fair  as  me ! 
With  just  one  dark  flush  on  its  face 
To  show  the  taint  of  Indian  race. 
That's  strange  !     Poor  little  outcast  mite ! 
I  guess  his  fathers  skin  is  white.' 
Then,  for  a  moment,  Phoebe's  mien 
Wore  an  expression  icy-keen, 
As  now  in  scrutiny  amazed 
The  sleeping  woman's  hand  she  raised, 
And  dropt  it  quickly,  murmuring — 
1  She  is  no  wife  !  she  wears  no  ring  1 ' 
So  for  a  space  her  features  took 
Pure  matronhood's  Medusa-look, — 
That  look,  so  pitiless  and  lawful, 
Which  oft  makes  little  women  awful ; 
And  which  weak  women,  when  they  fall, 
Dread  in  their  sisters  worst  of  all  I 
But  bless  thee,  Phoebe,  soon  the  child 
Soften'd  thy  face  and  made  it  mild  ; 
To  see  it  lie  so  bright  and  pretty, 
Thy  woman's  eyes  were  moist  for  pity, 
And  soon  thy  tears  began  to  flow — 
'  Poor  soul !  and  out  in  the  Great  Snow  ! ' 

E'en  as  she  spake  the  stranger  stirr'd. 

The  cold  lips  trembled  with  no  word. 
The  fingers  quiver'd,  the  great  eyes 
Open'd  in  stupefied  surprise, 


A  deep  sigh  tore  her  lips  apart, 

And  with  a  thickly-throbbing  heart 

She  gazed  around.     The  ruddy  light, 

The  cosy  kitchen  warm  and  bright, 

The  clock's  great  shining  face,  the  human 

Soft  kindly  eyes  of  the  white  woman, 

Came  like  a  dream — her  eyes  she  closed 

A  moment  with  a  moan,  and  dozed. 

Then  suddenly  her  soul  was  'ware 

Of  the  wild  quest  that  brought  her  there !     . 

She  open'd  eyes— a  flush  of  red 

Flash' d  to  her  cheeks  so  chill  and  dead —    I 

She  murmur'd  quick  with  quivering  lips, 

And,  trembling  to  the  finger  tips, 

Thrust  her  chill  hand  into  her  breast, 

Under  the  ragged  cloak,  in  quest 

Of  something  precious  hidden  there  ! — 

'Tis  safe, — she  draws  it  forth  with  care  ; 

A  wretched  paper,  torn  and  wet, 

Thumb-mark'd  with  touch  of  many  a 

hand, 

'Tis  there— 'tis  safe — she  has  it  yet, 
Her  heart's  sole  guide,  the  amulet, 

That  led  her  lone  feet  thro'  the  land  ! 
But  first,  unto  her  lips  of  ice 
She  holds  it  eagerly,  and  thrice 
She  kisses  it ;  then,  with  wild  eyes 
And  unintelligible  cries, 
Holds  it  to  Phoebe.     '  Read  ! '  cries  she, 
In  her  own  tongue,  distractedly  ; 
And  little  Phoebe  understands, 
And  takes  the  paper  in  her  hands, 
And  on  the  hearth  she  stoopeth  low, 
To  read  it  in  the  firelight  glow. 

Now  courage,  Phoebe  !  steel  thy  spirit ! 
A  blow  is  coming— thou  must  bear  it  1 

Slowly,  so  vilely  it  is  writ, 

Her  unskill'd  eyes  decipher  it ; 

So  worn  it  is  with  snow  and  rain, 

That  scarce  a  letter  now  is  plain, 

And  every  red  and  ragged  mark 

Is  smudged  with  handling,  dim,  and  dark. 

1  E-U-R-E ' — in  letters  blurr'd 

She  spells.     '  Eureka  !'  that's  the  word. 

But  why  does  little  Pi.jebe  start 

As  she  reads  on  ?     '  Eureka  Hart  /' — 

His  name,  her  husband's  name  ;  and  now 

The  red  blood  flames  on  cheek  and  brow ! 

She  stops— she  quivers— glares  wild-eyed 

At  the  red  woman  at  her  side, 


THE   GREAT  SNOW. 


417 


Who  watches  her  with  one  sick  gaze 
Of  wild  entreaty  and  amaze  : 
Then  she  spells  on— her  features  turn 
To  marble,  though  her  bright  eyes  burn, 
For  all  the  bitter  truth  grows  plain. 

1  EUREKA  HART,  DROWSIETOWN,  STATE 
OF  MAINE.' 

First  lightning  flash  of  fierce  surprise  ! 
It  burns  her  cheek,  and  blinds  her  eyes. 
Again  she  looks  on  the  strange  creature's 
Tall,  ragged  form  and  beauteous  features. 
Next  lightning  flash,  and  muffled  thunder — 
'  The  baby's  skin  is  white— no  wonder ! ' 
And  she  perceives,  as  plain  as  may  be, 
All  the  event— down  to  the  baby  ! 
Last  flash,  the  whole  dark  mystery  light- 
ing,— 
'  Why,  it's  Eureka's  own  handwriting  ! ' 

Ay,  little  wife  ! — and  these  dim  stains 
Are  life-blood  from  Eureka's  veins  ; 
In  blood  the  words  were  writ  by  him, 
And  see !  how  faded  and  how  dim  ! 

The  woman  took  her  hand.     She  shook 

The  touch  away  with  tiger-look, 

And  trembling  gazed  upon  her.     So. 

She  stagger'd  underneath  the  blow, 

Watch'd  by  the  stranger's  luminous  eyes 

In  mingled  stupor  and  surprise  ; 

Ah  !  little  did  the  stranger  guess 

The  situation's  bitterness, 

But  in  her  own  wild  tongue  did  say, 

'  Where  is  my  love  ?  show  me  the  way  ! ' 

A  hand  upon  the  latch.     Both  start, — 
The  door  swings  wide — the  drift  sweeps 
in. 

Footsteps  :  and  lo  !  Eureka  Hart, 
Snow-cover' d,  muffled  to  the  chin. 


FACE  TO  FACE. 

Warmly  muffled  to  the  chin  there, 

Blind  with  snow-drift,  stamping,  waiting 
Dazzled  by  the  light  within  there, 

Stood  the  giant  oscillating. 
Then  he  closed  the  door,  and  turning 

His  great  back  against  it,  smiled  ! 
Slightly  tipsy,  not  discerning 

The  red  woman  and  her  child. 


By  the  great  eyes  dimly  blinking, 

Feebly  leering  at  his  mate, 
Phcebe  saw  he  had  been  drinking, 

While  he  hiccup'd,  '  Guess  I'm  late  ! ' 
So  he  stood  ;  when,  wildly  ringing, 

Rose  a  scream  upon  the  air, 
'Twas  the  Indian  woman,  springing, 

Gasping,  gazing,  from  her  chair. 

Round  her  face  the  black  hair  raining, 
To  her  heart  the  baby  straining, 
Gasping,  gazing,  half  believing 
'Twas  some  phantom  soul-deceiving, 
Bound  as  by  a  spell  she  linger'd, 
Pointing  at  him  fiery-finger'd  ; 
And  the  giant  mighty-jointed, 
Groan'd  and  stagger'd  as  she  pointed, 
Thinking,  while  his  heart  beat  quicker, 
'Twas  some  phantom  born  of  liquor  !  .  . 
While  he  rubb'd  his  eyes  and  mutter'd, 

While  he  roll'd  his  eyes  distress'd, 
O'er  the  floor  a  thin  form  flutter'd, 

Cried,  and  sank  upon  his  breast ! 

Phoebe  screams.     Stagger'd  and  blinded, 
Stands  the  creature  beaver-minded, 
While  upon  his  heart  reposes 
Cheeks  he  knows  full  well— Red  Rose's  ! 
Half  repulsing  and  half  holding, 
While  her  arms  are  round  him  folding, 
Gaunt  he  stands  in  pain  afflicted, 
An  impostor  self-convicted  ! 
While  her  great  eyes,  upward-looking, 
Not  reproaching,  not  rebuking, 
Trusting,  loving,  lustre-pouring, 
Happy  now,  and  still  adoring, 
Burn  on  his  ;  and  her  dark  passion 
Masters  her  in  the  old  fashion, 
Thrills  the  frail  thin  figure,  burning 
With  a  lightning  flash  of  yearning, 
Lights  the  worn  cheeks  and  the  faded 
Forehead  with  her  dark  locks  shaded, 
Thrills,  transfigures,  seems  to  lend  her 
All  the  soul  of  her  old  splendour  ;— 
So  that  all  the  rags  upon  her, 
All  the  anguish  and  dishonour, 
All  the  weary  days  of  wandering, 
All  the  weeping,  plaining,  pondering, 
All  the  sorrow,  all  the  striving 
Ne'er  a  man  could  face  surviving, 
All  the  Past,  burns  iridescent 
In  one  Rainbow  of  the  Present. 
See  !  she  feasts  on  every  feature 
Madly,  like  a  famish'd  creature, 

EE 


4i8 


WHITE   ROSE  AND  RED. 


Reads  each  line  in  rapture,  reeling 
With  the  frantic  bliss  of  feeling  ; 
Kindling  now  her  arms  are  round  him, 
Murmuring  madly,  she  hath  found  him, 
He  is  folded  close  unto  her, 
And  the  bliss  of  God  thrills  thro'  her  ! 

Her  white  Chief,  whom  God  had  brought  her 

From  the  shining  Big  Sea  Water, 

Her  great  Chief  of  the  pale  races, 

With  wise  tongues  and  paintless  faces  ! 

More  than  mortal  in  her  seeing, 

Glorious,  grand,  a  god-like  being  ! 

Nor,  tho'  Phoebe  stands  there,  looking 

Most  distractedly  rebuking, 

Doth  this  child  of  the  red  nation 

Comprehend  the  situation  ! 

Not  a  thought  hath  she  to  move  her, 

Save  that  all  the  quest  is  over  ! 

He  is  living,  he  is  near  her, 

Grander,  greater,  braver,  dearer ! 

No  reproach  in  her  fixed  gaze  is 

While  her  eyes  to  his  she  raises — 

Only  hungering  and  thirsting 

Of  a  heart  with  pleasure  bursting ; 

Only  a  supreme  sensation 

Of  ecstatic  admiration, 

Melting  in  one  soul-flush  splendid 

Years  of  heart-ache  past  and  ended. 

Her  white  Warrior,  her  fair  Master ! 
Hers,  all  hers,  despite  disaster ! 
Hers,  her  own,  that  she  may  cry  for, 
Cling  to,  smile  to,  trust  in,  die  for  ! 
Is  she  Hindi     Hath  the  glad  wonder 
Struck  her  to  the  soul  and  stunn'd  her? 
Sees  she  not  on  every  feature 
The  sick  horror  of  the  creature  ? 
Sober  now,  and  looking  ghastly, 
Trembling  while  his  breath  comes  fastly, 
With  the  cold  sweat  on  his  forehead, 
Shrinking  as  from  something  horrid, 
Paralysed  with  guilt,  despairing, 
Not  at  her  but  Phoebe  glaring, 
Speechless,  helpless,  and  aghast, 
Stands  the  giant,  pinion'd  fast. 

Yes,  her  eyes  are  blindly  gleaming 
Thro'  the  warm  tears  wildly  streaming — 
Yes,  her  soul  is  blind  (God  guide  her !) ; 
Hunger,  thirst,  and  grief  have  tried  her, 
She  is  feeble,  not  perceiving 
Cause  for  bitterness  or  grieving  ; 


She  is  foolish,  never  guessing 
That  her  visit  is  distressing, 
She  is  mad,  mad,  mad,  presuming 
He  has  waited  for  her  coming  ! 

No,  she  will  not  see  the  horror 

Fate  hath  been  preparing  for  her — 

All  the  little  strength  remaining 

She  will  wildly  spend  in  straining, 

In  a  rapturous  confusion, 

To  her  breast  the  old  delusion. 

Hark !  her  lips  speak,  words  are  springing 

Like  the  notes  of  a  bird  singing, 

Like  a  fountain  sunward  throbbing 

With  a  silvern  song  of  sobbing  ; 

Not  a  word  is  clear,  but  all 

Rise  in  rapture,  blend,  and  fall ! 

Suddenly  the  rapture  falters, 
Her  hands  loosen,  her  face  alters, 
Drawing  from  him  softly,  quickly, 
While  he  staggers  white  and  sickly, 
She,  with  grace  beyond  all  beauty, 

Doth  her  ragged  cloak  unloose, 
Then,  with  looks  of  loving  duty, 

Shows  Eureka — the  papoose  ! 

Tiny,  pink-cheek'd,  blushing  brightly, 
Like  a  mummy  roll'd  up  tightly  ; 
Puffing  cheeks,  and  fat  hands  spreaning l 
In  an  ecstasy  unmeaning  ; 
Blinking,  his  pink  cheeks  in  gathers, 
With  blue  eyes  just  like  his  father's  ! 
In  his  pretty  face  already 
Just  the  image  of  his  daddy  ! 
Stolid,  stretching  hands  to  pat  him, 
Lies  the  baby,  smiling  at  him  ! 

Still  stands  little  Phoebe,  panting, 
This,  and  only  this,  was  wanting  ; 
Now,  with  all  her  courage  rallied, 
She  between  them — panting,  pallid — 
Stands  ;  and,  keen-eyed  as  an  eagle, 

Tho'  as  fluttering  as  a  linnet, 
Folds  her  virtue,  like  a  regal 

Robe,  around  her  ;  frowning  in  it. 
Yet  so  wildly  doth  she  flutter, 
Not  a  sentence  can  she  utter  ; 
Stately,  speechless,  with  eyes  blazing, 
Stands  the  little  White  Rose,  gazing  ! 

1  The  Printer's  Devil  queries  this,  but  he 
does  not  know  the  Old  Poets.  See  (e.g.)  Michael 
Dray  ton's  Moses?  Birth  and  Miracles—  'And 
spreans  the  pretty  hands.' 


THE   GREAT  StfOW. 


419 


Suddenly,  with  acclamation, 

On  that  group  of  desperation 

Bursts  the  Storm  ! — With  one  wild  rattle 

Of  the  elements  at  battle, 

With  one  horrid  roar  and  yelling, 

Tearing,  tugging  at  the  dwelling, 

Strikes  the  Wind  ;  the  latch  is  lifted, 

With  a  crash  wide  swings  the  door  ; 
In  the  blinding  Snow  is  drifted, 

With  a  melancholy  roar ! 
'Tis  the  elements  of  Nature 
Flocking  round  the  weary  creature, 
Crying  to  her,  while  they  blind  her,' 
'  Come  to  us  \  for  we  are  kinder  ! 
Cross  the  cruel,  fatal  portal 
Of  the  miserable  mortal ; 
Come,  our  hands  are  cold  but  loving  ! 
Back  into  the  midnight  moving, 
In  some  spot  of  silence  creeping, 
Find  a  quiet  place  for  sleeping. 
We,  the  Winds,  will  dig  it  straightway, 
Far  beyond  the  white  man's  gateway. 
I,  the  Snow,  will  place  above  it 
My  soft  cheek,  and  never  move  it ; 
With  my  beauty,  white  and  chilly, 
Lying  o'er  thee  like  a  lily, 
Dress'd  for  sleep  in  snowy  clothing 
Thou  shalt  slumber,  hearing  nothing. 
We  will  freeze  thine  ears  from  hearing 
His  hard  foot  when  it  is  nearing  ; 
We  will  close  thine  ears  from  conning 
His  that  look  upon  thee  shunning. 
We  will  keep  thee,  we  will  guard  thee, 
Till  the  kiss  of  God  reward  thee. 
Come,  O  come  ! '     Thus,  unavailing, 
Sounds  the  elemental  wailing. 

Peace,  O  Winds,  your  weary  voices 
Teach  her  nothing  :  she  rejoices  ! 
Hush,  O  Snow,  let  your  chill  hands  not 
Touch  her  cheek  ;  she  understands  not ; 
Hush  !     But  God,  who  is  that  other, 

Standing  beckoning  unto  her? 
Winds  and  Snows,  'tis  your  pale  brother, 

And  his  chilly  breath  thrills  thro"  her. 
Ay,  the  Shadow  there  is  looming 
Thro"  the  tempest  and  the  glooming  ! 
O'er  each  path  her  feet  have  chosen — 
Mountains,  valleys,  rivers  frozen  j 
Creeping  near,  with  eyes  that  glisten 
When  her  cold  foot  flagg'd,  to  listen  ; 
As  a  bloodhound,  ever  flitting, 
Night-time,  day-time,  never  quitting  ; 


Sure  of  scent,  with  thin  foot  trailing 
In  the  snowdrift,  never  failing, 
He  has  follow' d,  follow'd  slow, 
That  red  footprint  in  the  Snow  ! 
Now  he  finds  her  white  and  wan, — 
'Tis  the  Winter,  Peboan.1 

Spare  her  !   Who  would  bid  him  spare  her? 

Let  him  trance  her  and  upbear  her 

In  his  arms,  and  softly  place  her 

Where  no  cruel  foot  can  trace  her. 

Let  her  die  !     See,  his  eyes  con  her, 

And  his  icy  hand  is  on  her  ;  * 

Thro'  her  form  runs  the  quick  shiver, 

Light  as  leaves  her  eyelids  quiver, 

And  with  quick,  spasmodic  touches, 

The  beloved  form  she  clutches  ; 

From  the  cruelty  of  man, 

Take  her  gently,  Peboan  ! 

Phoebe  shivers.     To  her  reaching, 
With  an  agony  beseeching, 
Red  Rose  holds  the  babe  ;  one  moment, 
With  a  shrug  of  bitter  comment, 
Phcebe  shrinks  ;  then,  being  human, 

Frighten'd,  thinking  Death  is  there, 
Quietly  the  little  woman 

Takes  the  burden  unaware. 
Not  a  breath  too  soon  ;  for,  rocking 

In  the  roaring  of  the  storm, 
With  the  snow  flakes  round  her  flocking, 

And  the  wild  wind  round  her  form, 
With  a  cry  of  anguish,  prone 
Falls  the  wanderer,  cold  as  stone ! 

VI. 

PAUGUK. 

O  poor  Red  Rose  !  rent  by  the  storm  ! 
The  flame  still  flickered  in  her  form. 

Moveless  she  lay  ;  but  in  her  breast 
The  tumult  was  not  quite  at  rest 

They  raised  her  up,  and,  with  soft  tread, 
They  bore  her  slowly  to  a  bed. 

And  little  Phoebe's  heart  did  ache, 
Despite  her  wrongs,  for  pity's  sake ; 

And  little  Phoebe's  own  kind  hands 
(God  bless   them  !)  loos'd   the  wand'rer'3 
bands, 

1  See  the  American-Indian  Mythology.    'Pe- 
boan '  is  the  personification  of  extreme  Cold. 
££2 


420 


WHITE  ROSE  AND  RED. 


Took  softly  off  the  dripping  dress, 
With  eyes  that  wept  for  kindliness, 

Wrung  the  wet  hair,  and  smoothed  it  right, 
And  clad  the  Red  Rose  all  in  white, 

There,  all  in  white,  on  a  white  bed, 
The  Red  Rose  hung  her  heavy  head. 

Around  her  was  a  roar,  a  gleam, 
And  she  was  struggling  in  a  dream. 

Faces  round  her  went  and  came, 

Her  great  eyes  flash'd  with  fading  flame. 

For  all  the  time,  fever'd  and  sore, 
She  did  her  journey  yet  once  more  ; 

Once  again  her  Soul's  feet  trod 
The  pathless  wild,  the  weary  road  ; 

Onee  again  she  sail'd  along 

The  mighty  meres  and  rivers  strong  ; 

Once  again,  with  weary  tread, 

She  stagger'd  on,  and  begged  her  bread  ; 

Once  again  she  falter"  d  slow 
Into  the  realm  of  the  Great  Snow. 

Oh,  the  roaring  in  her  brain  ! 

Oh,  the  wild  winds  that  moan  again  ! 

Against  her,  as  she  clasps  her  child, 
The  hail  is  driven,  the  drift  is  piled. 

She  sees  a  light  that  shines  afar  ; 
It  beckons  her— a  hand,  a  Star. 

She  hears  a  voice  afar  away  ; 

It  calls  to  her  ;  she  must  not  stay. 

Around  her  clouds  of  tempest  roll, 
And,  oh  !  the  storm  within  her  soul ! 

But  now  and  then,  amid  the  snow, 
There  comes  a  silence  and  a  glow  ; 

And  white  she  lies,  in  a  white  room, 
And  some  one  watches  in  the  gloom. 

Close  by  the  bed  where  she  doth  rest, 
Sits,  with  the  babe  upon  her  breast, 

A  little  woman,  waiting  there, 
Despite  her  wrongs,  so  kind,  so  fair  1 

E'en  as  she  wakens,  wild  and  weak, 
Red  Rose  sits  up,  and  tries  to  speak, 

And  reaching  out,  with  a  thin  moan, 
She  takes  a  white  hand  in  her  own  ; 


But  swoons  once  more,  and  hears  again 
The  tempest  roaring  in  her  brain  ! 

Now  as  she  dreams,  with  fever'd  cries, 
Phoebe  looks  on  with  quiet  eyes  ; 

And  Phoebe  and  her  maidens  go 
Softly  and  lightly  to  and  fro. 

Downstairs  by  the  great  fire  of  wood, 
Alone,  Eureka  Hart  doth  brood  ; 

And  when  his  little  wife  descends 
He  scowls,  and  eyes  his  finger-ends. 

She  scarcely  looks  into  his  face, 
But  orders  him  about  the  place  ; 

And  at  her  will  he  flies  full  meek, 
With  red  confusion  0:1  his  cheek. 

Her  eyes  are  swoll'n  with  tears  ;  to  him 
Her  face  is  pitiless  and  grim. 

But  as  she  reascends  the  stairs 
Her  pale  cheek  flushes  unawares. 

In  pity  half,  and  half  in  scorn, 
She  sees  again  that  shape  forlorn. 

She  cannot  love  her  ;  yet  her  heart 
Flutters,  and  takes  the  wand'rer's  part. 

Her  thoughts  are  angry,  weak  and  wild, 
Yet  carefully  she  tends  the  child. 

Often  she  prays,  with  heart  astir, 

The  white  man's  God  to  strengthen  her. 

And  thus,  despite  her  heart's  distress, 
She  doth  a  deed  of  blessedness. 

Silent  for  days  by  that  bedside 
She  waiteth,  watching,  weary-eyed : 

Not  all  alone  ;  by  her  unseen, 
Sitteth  another,  strange  of  mien. 

He  squatteth  in  the  corner  there, 
And  looketh  on  through  his  thin  hair. 

Clad  in  fantastic  Indian  weeds, 
With  calumet  and  skirt  of  beads, 

Gaunt,  haggard,  hungry,  woebegone, 
Waiteth  Pauguk,1  the  Skeleton  ! 

For  wintry  Peboan  hath  fled, 
Leaving  this  shadow  in  his  stead. 

1  In  the  same  mythology,  Pauguk  is,  as  re- 
presented in  the  poem,  the  Indian  spirit  of  Death. 


THE   GREAT  SNOW. 


421 


And  there  he  waits,  unseen,  unheard  ; 
And  as  a  serpent  on  a  bird 

Fixeth  his  glittering  gaze,  Pauguk 
Watcheth  the  bed  with  hungry  look. 

VII. 

THE  MELTING  OF  THE  SNOW. 

A  sound  of  streamlets  flowing,  flowing  ; 

A  cry  of  winds  so  bleakly  blowing  ; 

A  stir,  a  tumult  ever  growing  ; 

Deep  night ;  and  the  Great  Snow  was  going. 

Underneath  her  death-shroud  thick, 

Like  a  body  buried  quick, 

Heaved  the  Earth,  and  thrusting  hands 

Crack'd  the  ice  and  brake  her  bands. 

Heaven,  with  face  of  watery  woe, 

Watched  the  resurrection  grow. 

All  the  night,  bent  to  be  free, 

In  a  sickening  agony, 

Struggled  Earth.     With  silent  tread 

From  his  cold  seat  at  her  head 

Rose  the  Frost,  and  northward  stole 

To  his  cavern  near  the  pole. 

When  the  bloodshot  eyes  of  Morn 

Opened  in  the  east  forlorn, 

'Twas  a  dreary  sight  to  see 

Blotted  waste  and  watery  lea, 

All  the  beautiful  white  plains 

Blurr'd  with  black'ning  seams  and  stains, 

All  the  sides  of  every  hill 

Scarr'd  with  thaw  and  dripping  chill, 

All  the  cold  sky  scowling  black 

O'er  the  soaking  country  track  ; 

There  a  sobbing  everywhere 

In  the  miserable  air, 

And  a  thick  fog  brooding  low 

O'er  the  black  trail  of  the  snow  ; 

While  the  Earth,  amid  the  gloom 

Still  half  buried  in  her  tomb, 

Swooning  lay,  and  could  not  rise, 

With  dark  film  upon  her  eyes. 

In  the  farmhouse  (where  a  light 
Glimmer'd  feebly  day  and  night 
From  the  sick-room)  Red  Rose  heard 
Earth's  awakening,  and  stirr'd, 
Gazed  around  her,  and  descried 
Phoebe  sitting  at  her  side, 
Knitting,  while  the  little  child, 
Sleeping  on  the  pillow,  smiled. 


Little  Phcebe's  face  was  still, 
Calm  with  quiet  strength  and  will. 
And  the  lamplight  round  her  flitted 
Faintly,  feebly,  as  she  knitted. 
Full  confession  had  she  brought 
From  Eureka's  soul  distraught. 
What  he  hid,  in  desperation, 
She  supplied,  by  penetration. 
So  she  traced  from  the  beginning 
All  the  story  of  the  sinning. 
Had  her  spirit  felt  perchance 
Just  a  little  more  romance  ; 
Had  the  giant  in  her  sight 
Seem'd  a  paragon  more  bright ; 
Had  the  married  love  she  bore 
Been  a  very  little  more — 
Why,  perchance  poor  Phoebe's  heart 
Might  have  taken  the  man's  part, 
Heaping  fiercely,  as  is  common, 
All  its  hate  upon  the  woman. 
Not  so  Phoebe  1  cold  and  pale 
Did  she  listen  to  the  tale  ; 
Ne'er  relenting,  scarcely  heeding, 
Heard  the  man's  excusing,  pleading ; 
Felt  her  blood  boil,  and  her  face 
Crimson  for  a  moment's  space, 
Thinking  darkly,  in  dismay, 
'  What  will  Parson  Pendon  say?' 
But  at  last  the  little  soul 
Back  to  the  sick  chamber  stole ; 
Saw  the  wanderer  lying  there, 
Wildly,  marvellously  fair  ; 
Saw  the  little  baby  too 
Blinking  with  big  eyes  of  blue ; 
And  she  murmured,  with  a  sigh, 
1  She's  deceived,  as  well  as  I. 
Hers  is  far  the  bitterest  blow, 
'Cause  she  seems  to  love  him  so.' 
So  thought  Phcebe,  calmly  sitting 
By  the  bedside  at  her  knitting, 
While  the  fog  hung  thick  and  low 
O'er  the  black  trail  of  the  Snow. 

Thus  she  did  her  duty  there, 
Tending  with  a  bitter  care 
Her  sick  rival ;  spite  her  pain, 
Able,  with  a  woman's  brain, 
To  discern  as  clear  as  day 
On  whose  side  the  sinning  lay ; 
Able  to  compassionate 
Her  deluded  rival's  fate, 
All  the  weariness  and  care 
Of  the  fatal  journey  there  ; 


422 


WHITE  ROSE  AND  RED. 


Able  to  acknowledge  (this 
Far  the  most  amazing  is) 
On  how  dull  and  mean  a  thing 
Wasted  was  this  passioning  ; 
On  how  commonplace  a  chance 
Hung  the  wanderer's  romance  ; 
Round  how  mere  a  Log  did  twine 
The  wild  tendrils  of  this  vine. 

Screen'd  thus  from  the  wintry  blast, 
Droopt  the  Red  Rose,  fading  fast ; 
While  the  White  Rose,  hanging  near, 
Trembled  in  a  pensive  fear. 
So  the  snow  had  nearly  fled, 
And  upon  her  dying  bed 
Earth  was  quick'ning  ;  damp  and  chill 
Streamed  the  fog  on  vale  and  hill. 
Like  a  slimy  crocodile 
Weltering  on  banks  o'  Nile, 
Everywhere,  with  muddy  maw, 
Crawl'd  the  miserable  Thaw. 
On  the  pond  and  on  the  stream 
Loosen' d  lights  began  to  gleam, 
And  before  the  snow  could  fleet 
Drizzly  rains  began  to  beat. 

Here  and  there  upon  the  plain, 
'Mid  the  pools  of  thaw  and  rain, 
Linger'd  in  the  dismal  light 
Patches  of  unmelted  white. 
As  these  melted,  very  slowly, 
In  a  quiet  melancholy, 
Vacant  gleams  o'  the  clouded  blue 
Through  the  dismal  daylight  flew, 
And  the  wind,  with  a  shrill  clang, 
Went  into  the  west,  and  sang. 

A  sound  of  waters  ever  flowing  ; 
A  stir,  a  tumult,  ever  growing  ; 
A  gleam  o'  the  blue,  a  west  wind  blowing  ; 
Warmth,  and  the  last  snow  wreath  was 
going. 

Not  alone  !  ah  !  not  alone  ! 

Waking  up  with  fever'd  moan, 
Red  Rose  started  and  looked  round, 
Listening  for  a  voice,  a  sound, 
And  the  skeleton,  Pauguk, 
Crouching  silent  in  his  nook, 
Panted,  like  a  famish'd  thing, 
In  the  very  act  to  spring. 

'Twas  at  sunset ;  on  the  bed 
Crimson  shafts  of  light  were  shed, 


And  the  face,  famish'd  and  thin, 
Flash'd  to  sickly  flame  therein, 
While  the  eyes,  with  fevered  glare, 
Sought  a  face  they  saw  not  there. 
Then  she  moan'd,  and  with  a  cry, 
Reckoning  little  Phoebe  nigh, 
Whisper'd  ;  but  the  words  she  said 
Perish' d  uninterpreted. 
Still,  in  bitterest  distress, 
Clinging  to  poor  Phoebe's  dress, 
With  wild  gestures,  she  in  vain 
Tried  to  make  her  meaning  plain. 
Then  did  little  Phoebe  see 
How  the  face  changed  suddenly  ! 
For  invisible  Pauguk, 
Creeping  swiftly  from  his  nook, 
Stood  erect,  and  hung  the  head 
O'er  the  woman  on  the  bed. 
Still  the  woman,  glaring  round, 
Listen'd  for  a  voice,  a  sound, 
Crying  wildly  o'er  and  o'er, 
With  her  great  eyes  on  the  door. 

Pale,  affrighted,  and  aghast, 
Phoebe  understood  at  last — 
Knew  the  weary  wanderer  cried 
To  behold  him  ere  she  died  ; 
So,  without  a  word  of  blame, 
Phoebe  called  him,  and  he  came. 

The  sun  was  set,  the  night  was  growing, 
Softly  the  wind  o'  the  west  was  blowing, 
The  gates  of  heaven  were  overflowing  ; 
With  the  last  snow  Red  Rose  was  going. 

vin. 
THE  LAST  LOOK. 

To  the  bedside,  white  and  quaking, 

Came  Eureka,  with  a  groan, 
Conscience-stricken  now,  and  taking 

Her  thin  hand  into  his  own. 
At  the  touch  she  kindled,  rallied, 

With  a  look  of  gentle  grace  ; 
Clung  about  him  deathly  pallid, 

And,  uplooking  in  his  face, 
Smiled!  Ah,  God!  that  smile  of  parting 
From  her  soul's  dim  depths  upstarting  1 
'Twas  a  smile  of  awful  beauty, 
Full  of  fatal  love  and  duty  ; 
Such  a  smile  as  haunts  for  ever 
Any  being  but  a  beaver. 
Ev'n  Eureka's  stolid  spirit 
Was  half  agonized  to  bear  it. 


THE   GREAT  SNOW— EPILOGUE. 


423 


Smiling  thus,  and  softly  crooning 
Words  he  could  not  understand, 

Sank  she  on  the  pillow,  swooning, 
Clutching  still  her  hero's  hand. 

Silent  Spirits,  shapes  that  love  her, 

Is  she  resting  ?  is  all  over? 

Nay  ;  for  while  Eureka,  quaking, 

Heart-sick,  soul-sick  to  behold  her, 
From  the  bed  her  worn  form  taking, 

Leans  her  head  upon  his  shoulder  ; 
Once  again,  the  spirit  flying, 

With  a  last  expiring  ray, 
Waves  a  message,  dimly  dying, 

From  its  tenement  of  clay. 
Those  great  eyes  upon  him  looking. 
Not  reproaching,  not  rebuking, 
Brighten  into  bliss — perceiving 
Nought  of  shame  or  of  deceiving  : 
Only  for  the  last  time  seeing 
Her  great  Chief,  a  god-like  being  ; 
Only  happy,  all  at  rest, 
To  be  dying— on  his  breast. 

See  !  her  hand  points  upward,  slowly, 
With  an  awful  grace  and  holy, 
And  her  eyes  are  saying  clearly, 
'  Master,  lord,  beloved  so  dearly, 
We  shall  meet,  with  souls  grown  fonder, 
In  God's  happy  prairies  yonder ; 
Where  no  Snow  falls  ;  where,  for  ever, 
Flows  the  shining  Milky  River, 
On  whose  banks,  divinely  glowing, 
Shapes  like  ours  are  coming,  going, 
In  the  happy  star-dew  moving, 
Silent,  smiling,  loved,  and  loving ! 
Fare  thee  well,  till  then,  my  Master  ! ' 
Hark,  her  breath  comes  fainter,  faster, 
While,  in  love  man  cannot  measure, 

Kissing  her  white  warrior's  hand, 
She  sinks,  with  one  great  smile  of  pleasure — 

Last  flash  upon  the  blackening  brand  ! 


EPILOGUE. 

IN  a  dark  corner  of  the  burial-place, 
Where  sleep  apart  the  creatures  of  red  race, 
Red   Rose  was  laid,   cold,  beautiful,   and 

dead, 
With  all  the  great  white  Snow  above  her 

bed. 

And  soon  the  tiny  partner  of  her  quest, 
The  little  babe,  was  laid  upon  her  breast ; 


For,  though  the  heart  of  Phoebe  had  been 
kind, 

And  sought  to  save  the  infant  left  behind, 

It  wither'd  when  the  mother's  kiss  with- 
drew— 

The  Red  Rose  faded,  and  the  Blossom  too. 

There  sleeps  their  dust,  but  'neath  another 
sky, 

More  kind  than  this,  their  Spirits  sleeping 
lie. 

Sleeping,   or  waking?      There,   with  eyes 

tear-wet, 

Is  her  soul  homeless  ?  doth  she  wander  yet, 
Silent  by  those  still  pathways,  with  bent 

head, 
Still  listening,  listening,  for  her  warrior's 

tread? 

It  came  not,  comes  not— tho'  the  ages  roll, 
Still  with  that  life-long  hunger  in  her  soul, 
She  must  wait  on,  and  thousand  others  too, 
If  waking  Immortality  be  true. 
But,  no  ;  God  giveth  his  beloved  sleep  ; 
Rose  of  the  wilderness,  may  thine  be  deep  ! 
Not  [near  the  white  man's  happy  Death- 
domains, 

But  in  the  red  man's  mighty  hunting-plains  ; 
Amid  the  harmless  shades  of  flocks  and 

herds, 

Amid  the  hum  of  bees,  the  song  of  birds, 
With  fields  and  woods  all  round,  and  skies 

above 
Dark  as  thine  eyes,  and  deathless  as  thy 

love! 

Here  ends  my  tale ;  what  further  should  I 

state? 
Save  that  poor  Phoebe  soon  forgave  her 

mate, 
As  small  white  wives  forgive  ;  with  words 

^utspoken 
The  peace  was  patch'd  almost  as  soon  as 

broken  ; 

For  Phcebe  argued,  after  a  good  cry, 
1  'Tis  a  bad  job  ;   but  break  my  heart — 

not  I ! 

All  the  men  do  it — that's  a  fact  confessed, 
And  my  great  stupid's  only  like  the  rest. 
But  what's  the  good  of  fretting  more  than 

need? 

I've  got  the  cows  to  mind,  the  hens  to  feed. 
I  'spose  it's  dreadful,  but  'tis  less  a  sin 
Than  if  the  wench  had  a  white  woman's 

skin ! ' 


424 


WHITE  ROSE  AND   RED. 


Oft  at  his  head  her  mocking  shafts  she 

aim'd, 
While  by  the  hearth  he  hung  the  head 

ashamed, 
Pricking  his  moral  hide  right  thro'   and 

thro', 

As  virtuous  little  wives  so  well  can  do, 
Till  out  he  swagger'd,  cursing,  sorely  hit, 
And  puzzled  by  the  little  woman's  wit. 
Indeed,  for  seasons  of  domestic  strife, 
She  kept  this  rod  in  pickle  all  her  life. 

As  for  Eureka,  why,  he  felt,  of  course, 
Some    conscience-prick,   some    tremor    of 

remorse, 

Not  deep  enough  to  cause  him  many  groans, 
Or  keep  the  fat  from  growing  on  his  bones. 


He  throve,  he  prosper'd,  was  esteem'd  by 

all,— 

At  fifty,  he  was  broad  as  he  was  tall ; 
Loved  much  his  pipe  and  glass,  and  at 

the  inn 

Spake  oft — an  oracle  of  double  chin. 
Did  he  forget  her  ?    Never  !     Often,  while 
He  sat  and  puff  d  his  pipe  with  easy  smile, 
Surveying  fields  and  orchards    from    the 

porch, 

And  far  away  the  little  village  church, 
While  all  seem'd  peaceful — earth,  and  air, 

and  sky, — 

A  twinkle  came  into  his  fish-like  eye  ; 
1  Poor  critter ! '  sigh'd  he,  as  a  cloud  he  blew, 
1  She  was  a  splendid    figure,    and    that's 

true  ! ' 


Faces  on  the  Wall. 


LONE  HOUSE. 

LONE    HOUSE  amid  the  Main,  where  I 

abide, 
Faces  there  are  around  thy  walls ;  and 

see 

With  constant  features,  fair  and  faithful- 
eyed, 

In  solemn  silence  these  admonish  me. 
They  are  the  Faces  of  the  strong  and 

free; 

Prophets  who  on  the  car  of  Tempest  ride  ; 
Martyrs  who  drift  amid  the  waters  wide 
On  some  frail  raft,  and  pray  on  bended 

knee. 
Stay  with  me,  Faces !  make  me  free  and 

strong ! 
On  other  walls  let  flush'd   Bacchantes 

leer; 
In    quainter    rooms    of   snugger  sons   of 

song 

Let  old  fantastic  tapestries  appear. 
Lone  House  !  for  comfort,  when  the  nights 

are  long, 
Let  none  but  future-seeking  eyes  be  here  ! 


STORM  AND   CALM. 

THE  lone   House  shakes,  the  wild  waves 

leap  around, 
Their  sharp  mouths  foam,  their  frantic 

hands  wave  high  ; 

I  hear  around  me  a  sad  soul  of  sound, — 
A  ceaseless  sob, — a  melancholy  cry. 
Above,  there  is  the  trouble  of  the  sky. 
On    either    side   stretch    waters  with    no 

bound. 

Within,  my  cheek  upon  my  hand,  sit  I, 
Oft  startled  by  sick  faces  of  the  drown'd. 
Yet  are  there  golden  dawns  and  glassy 

days 
When  the  vast  Sea  is  smooth  and  sunk  in 

rest, 
And  in  the  sea  the  gentle  heaven  doth 

gaze, 
And,    seeing  its  own    beauty,  smiles    its 

best; 
With  nights  of  peace,  when,  in  a  virgin 

haze, 

God's  Moon  wades  thro'  the  shallows  of 
the  West. 


FACES'  ON  THE    WALL. 


425 


WITHOUT  AND    WITHIN. 

THE  Sea  without,  the  silent  room  within, 

The  Mystery  above,  the  Void  below  ! 
I  watch  the  storms  die  and  the  storms  begin  ; 
I  see  the  white  ships  ghost-like  come 

and  go  ; 

I  wave  a  signal  they  may  see  and  know, 
As,  crowding  up  on  deck  with  faces  thin, 
The  seamen  pass, — some  sheltered  creek  to 

win, 

Or  drift  to  whirling  pools  of  pain  and  woe. 
What  prospect,  then,  on   midnights  dark 

and  dead, 
When  the  room  rocks  and  the  wild  water 

calls?— 

Only  to  mark  the  beacon  I  have  fed, 
Whose  cold  streak  glassily  on  the  black 

sea  falls  ; 

Only,  while  the  dim  lamp  burns  overhead, 
To  watch  the  glimmering  Faces  on  the 
walls. 

NAPOLEON. 

LOOK  on  that  picture,  and  on  this.  .  .  . 

Behold 
The  Face    that  frown'd    the    rights  of 

realms  away ; 

The  imperial  forehead,  filleted  with  gold  ; 
The  arrogant  chin,  the  lips  of  frozen  clay. 
This  is  the  later  Caesar,  whose  great  day 
Was  one  long  sunset  in  blood-ruby  rolled, 
Till,  on  an  ocean-island  lone  and  gray, 
It  sank  unblest,  forgotten,  dead,  and  cold. 
Yea,  this  is  he  who  swept  from  plain  to 

plain, 
Watering  the  harvest-fields  with  crimson 

rain  ; 

This  is  the  Eagle  who  on  garbage  fed. 
Turn  to  the  wall  the  pitiless  eyes.     Art, 

Thought, 
Law,  Science,  owed  the  monster  less  than 

nought ; 

And   Nature  breath' d  again  when  he  was 
dead. 

ABRAHAM  LINCOLN. 

TURN ;  and,  behold  the  sad  Soul  of  the  West 
Passing  behind  a  Rainbow  bloodily  ! 
Conscience  incarnate,  steadfast,  strong, 

and  free, 

Changeless  thro'  change,  blessing  and  ever 
blessed. 


Sad  storm-cloud  with  God's  Iris  on  his 
breast, 

Across  the  troubled  ocean  travelled  he, — 
Sad  was  his  passing  !  gentle  be  his  rest  ! 

God's  Bow  sails  with  him  on  another  sea  ! 

At  first  no  larger  than  a  prophet's  hand, 

Against  the  dense  insufferable  blue 
Cloud-like  he  came  ;  and  by  a  fierce  wind 

fanned, 

Didst  gather  into  greatness  ere  we  knew, 
Then,  flash  by  flash,  most  desolately  grand, 
Passed  away  sadly  heavenward,  dropping 
dew  ! 

WALT   WHITMAN. 

FRIEND  Whitman  !  wert  thou  less  serene 

and  kind, 

Surely  thou  mightest  (like  our  Bard  sub- 
lime, 

Scorn'd  by  a  generation  deaf  and  blind), 
Make  thine  appeal  to  the  avenger,  Time  ; 
For  thou  art  none  of  those  who  upward 

climb, 

Gathering  roses  with  a  vacant  mind, 
Ne'er  have  thy  hands  for   jaded  triflers 

twined 
Sick  flowers  of  rhetoric  and  weeds  of 

rhyme. 
Nay,  thine  hath  been  a  Prophet's  stormier 

fate. 
While  Lincoln  and  the  martyr'd  legions 

wait 

In  the  yet  widening  blue  of  yonder  sky, 
On  the  great  strand  below  them  thou  art 

seen, — 
Blessing,  with  something  Christ-like  in  thy 

mien, 

A  sea  of  turbulent  lives  that  break  and 
die! 

0  FACES! 

O  FACES  !    that  look  forward,   eyes  that 

spell 
The  future  time  for  signs,  what  see  ye 

there  ? 

On  what  far  gleams  of  portent  do  ye  dwell  ? 
Whither,  with  lips  like  quivering  leaves 

and  hair 

Back-blowing  in  the  whirlwind,  do  ye  stare 
So  steadfast  and  so  still  ?  Oh  speak  and  tell  J 


426 


FACES   ON    THE    WALL. 


Is  the  soul  safe?  shall  the  sick  world  be 

well? 

Will  morning  glimmer  soon,  and  all  be 
fair  ? 

0  Faces  !  ye  are  pale,  and  somewhat  sad, 
And  in  your  eyes  there  swim  the  fatal 

tears  ; 
But  on  your  brows  the  dawn  gleams  cold 

and  hoar. 

I,  too,  gaze  forward,  and  my  heart  grows 
glad; 

1  catch  the  comfort  of  the  golden  years  ; 

I  see  the  Soul  is  safe  for  evermore  ! 


TO   TRIFLERS. 

Go,  triflers  with  God's  secret.     Far,  oh  far 
Be    your    thin    monotone,   your    brows 

flower-crown'd, 

Your  backward-looking  faces  ;  for  ye  mar 
The  pregnant   time  with  silly  sooth  of 

sound, 
With  flowers  around  the  feverish  temples 

bound, 

And  withering  in  the  close  air  of  the  feast. 
Take  all  the  summer  pleasures  ye  have 

found, 
While  Circe-charm'd  ye  turn  to  bird  and 

beast. 

Meantime  I  sit  apart,  a  lonely  wight 
On  this  bare  rock  amid  this  fitful  Sea, 

And  in  the  wind  and  rain  I  try  to  light 
A  little  lamp  that  may  a  Beacon  be, 
Whereby  poor  ship-folk,  driving  thro'  the 

night, 

May  gain   the    Ocean-course,   and    think 
of  me  ! 


THE    WANDERERS. 

GOD'S  blessing  on  poor  ship-folk !    Peace 

and  prayer 
Fall  on  their  eyelids  till  they  close  in 

sleep ! 
God  send  them  gentle  winds  and  summer 

air, 
For    the    great   sea  is  treacherous   and 

deep. 

Light  me  up    lamps    on    every  ocean- 
steep,— 
Beacon  the  shallows  with  a  loving  care. 


Ay  me !    the  wind  cries  and  the  wild 

waves  leap, 
And  on  they  drive — God  knows — they  know 

not — where. 
Come  Poets  !  come,  O  Prophets  !   yea, 

disown 

The  phantasies  and  phantoms  ye  pursue  ! 
Lights  !  lights  !  with  fatal  snares  the  sea 

is  sown. 
Guide  the  poor  ship-folk  lone  beneath  the 

blue. 

Nay,  do  not  light  for  Lazarus  alone, 
But  light  for  Dives  and  the  Devil  too. 


THE  WATCHER  OF  THE 
BEACON. 

LONE  is  his  life  who,  on  a  sea-tower  blind, 
Watcheth  all  weathers  o'er  the  beacon- 
light. 

Ah  !  woe  to  him  if,  mad  with  his  own  mind, 
He  groweth  sick  for  scenes  more  sweet 

and  bright  ; 
For  round  him,  in  the  dreadful  winter 

night, 
The  snow  drifts,  and  the  waves  beat,  and 

the  wind 

Shrieks  desolately,  while  with  feeble  sight 
He  readeth  some  old  Scripture  left  behind 
By  those  who  sat    before  him   in  that 

place, 
And    in    their    season  perish'd,   one  and 

all.  .  .  . 
Wild  raves  the  wind  :  the  Faces  on  the 

wall 
Seem  phantoms  :  features  dark  and  dim 

to  trace. 

He  starteth  up — he  tottereth— he  would  fall, 
When,   lo  !   the  gleam  of  one  Diviner 
Face! 


'AND     THE    SPIRIT    OF    GOD 
MOVED  UPON  THE  WATERS: 

O  FACES  !  fade  upon  the  wall,  and  leave 

This  only,  for  the  watcher  to  implore. 
Dim  with  the  peace  that  starry   twilights 

weave, 

It  riseth,  and  the  storm  is  hush'd  and 
o'er. 


FACES   ON  THE    WALL. 


427 


Trembling  I  feed  my  feeble  lamp  once 

more, 

Tho'  all  be  placid  as  a  summer  eve. 
See    there  it  moves  where  weary  waters 

grieve,— 

O  mariners  !  look  yonder  and  adore  ! 
Spirit,  grow  brighter  on  my  nights  and 
days ; 


Shine  out  of  heaven  \  my  guide  and  comfort 

be: 
Pilot  the  wanderers  through   the  ocean 

ways  ; 

Keep  the  stars  steadfast,  and  the  waters  free : 
Lighten    thy  lonely  creature  while    he 

prays  : 
Keep  his  Soul  strong  amid  the  mighty  Sea  ! 


Balder  the  Beautiful. 


A  SONG  OF   DIVINE   DEATH. 


5  &dvare  Haidv  / 

'  For  as  in  Adam  all  die,  even  so  in  Christ  shall  all  be  made  alive.  .  .  .  But  some  man  will  say, 
How  are  the  dead  raised  up  ?  and  with  what  body  do  they  come  ?  Thou  fool,  that  which  thou 
sowest  is  not  quickened,  except  it  die.  .  .  .  Behold,  I  show  you  a  mystery;  we  shall  not  all  sleep, 
but  we  shall  all  be  changed.' — PAUL,  COR.  ist  Ep.  chap.  xv. 

NOTE. 

It  may  be  well  for  readers  of  the  following  poem  to  dismiss  from  their  minds  all  recollection  ot 
the  Eddas,  Ewald's  Balder,  Oehlenschlager's  Balder  him  Code,  and  even  Mr.  Arnold's  Balder 
Dead.  With  the  hero  of  these  familiar  works  my  Balder  has  little  in  common  ;  he  is  neither  the 
shadowy  god  of  the  Edda,  nor  the  colossal  hero  of  Ewald,  nor  the  good  principle  of  Oehlenschlager, 
nor  the  Homeric  demigod  of  Mr.  Arnold.  In  the  presentation  of  both  the  Father  and  Son,  I  have 
reverted  to  the  lines  of  the  most  primitive  mythology  :  discovering  in  the  one  the  northern  Messiah 
as  well  as  the  northern  Apollo,  in  the  other  (instead  of  the  degraded  Odin  of  later  superstition)  the 
Alfadur,  or  temporarily  omnipotent  godhead,  who,  despite  his  darker  features,  has  affinity  with  both 
the  Zeus  of  the  Eleusinian  mysteries  and  the  Jehovah  of  the  Bible.  It  is  unnecessary,  however, 
further  to  explain  the  spirit  of  a  poem  which  each  competent  reader  will  interpret  in  his  own  way, 
and  which,  if  it  fulfils  its  purpose  at  all,  should  have  many  meanings  for  many  minds. 

A  portion  of  Balder  the  Beautiful  has  already  been  printed  in  the  pages  of  the  Contemporary 
Review. 


PROEM  TO- — . 
A  SONG  OF  A  DREAM. 

0  WHAT  is  this  cry  in  our  burning  ears, 
And  what  is  this  light  on  our  eyes,  dear 

love? 
The  cry  is  the  cry  of  the  rolling  years, 

As  they  break  on  the  sun-rock,  far  above  ; 
And  the  light  is  the  light  of  that  rock  of  gold 

As  it  burneth  bright  in  a  starry  sea  ; 
And  the  cry  is  clearer  a  hundredfold, 

And  the  light  more  bright,  when  I  gaze 

on  thee. 
My  weak  eyes  dazzle  beneath  that  gleam, 

My  sad  ears  deafen  to  hear  that  cry  : 

1  was  born  in  a  dream,  and  I  dwell  in  a 

dream, 
And  I  go  in  a  dream  to  die  I 


j  O  whose  is  this  hand  on  my  forehead  bare, 
And  whose  are  these  eyes  that  look  in 

mine? 

The  hand  is  the  Earth's  soft  hand  of  air, 
The  eyes  are  the  Earth's — thro'  tears  they 

shine  ; 

And  the  touch  of  the  hand  is  so  soft,  so  light, 

As  the  ray  of  the  blind  orbs  blesseth  me  ; 

But  the  touch  is  softest,  the  eyes  most  bright, 

When  I  sit  and  smile  by  the  side  of  thee. 

For  the  mortal  Mother's  blind  eyes  beam 

With  the  long-lost  love  of  a  life  gone  by, 
On  her  breast  I  woke  in  a  beauteous  dream, 
And  I  go  in  a  dream  to  die  ! 


O  what  are  the  voices  around  my  way, 
And  what  are  these  shadows   that 
below  ? 


stir 


428 


BALDER    THE  BEAUTIFUL. 


The  voices  of  waifs  in  a  world  astray, 

The  shadows  of  souls  that  come  and  go. 
And  I  hear  and  see,  and  I  wonder  more, 
For  their  features  are  fair  and  strange  as 

mine, 

But  most  I  wonder  when  most  I  pore 
On  the  passionate  peace  of  this  face  of 

thine. 
We  walk  in  silence  by  wood  and  stream, 

Our  gaze  upturned  to  the  same  blue  sky  : 
We  move  in  a  dream,  and  we  love  in  a 

dream, 
And  we  go  in  our  dream  to  die  ! 

0  what  is  this  music  of  merry  bells, 

And  what  is  this  laughter  across  the  wold  ? 
'Tis  the  mirth  of  a  market  that  buys  and 

sells, 
'Tis  the  laughter  of  men  that  are  counting 

gold. 

1  walk  thro'  Cities  of  silent  stone, 
And  the  public  places  alive  I  see  ; 

The  wicked  flourish,  the  weary  groan, 

And  I  think  it  real,  till  I  turn  to  thee  ! 
And  I  smile  to  answer  thine  eyes'  bright 

beam, 

For  I  know  all's  vision  that  darkens  by  : 
That  they  buy  in  a  dream,  and  they  sell  in 

a  dream, 
And  they  go  in  a  dream  to  die. 

0  what  are  these  shapes  on  their  thrones  of 

gold, 

And  what  are  those  clouds  around  their 

feet? 

The  shapes  are  kings  with  their  hearts  clay- 
cold, 

The  clouds  are  armies  that  ever  meet ; 

1  see  the  flame  of  the  crimson  fire, 

I  hear  the  murdered  who  moan  '  Ah  me! ' — 
My  bosom  aches  with  its  bitter  ire, 

And  I  think  it  real,  till  I  turn  to  thee  ! 
And  I  hear  thee  whisper,   'These  shapes 

but  seem — 

They  are  but  visions  that  flash  and  fly, 
While  we  move  in  a  dream,  and  love  in  a 

dream, 
And  go  in  our  dream  to  die  ! ' 

O  what  are  these  Spirits  that  o'er  us  creep, 
And  touch  our  eyelids   and   drink  our 
breath  ? 


The  first,  with  a  flower  in  his  hand,  is 

Sleep  ; 
The  next,  with  a  star  on  his  brow, 

Death. 
We  fade  before  them  whene'er  they  come, 

(And  never  single  those  spirits  be  !) 
A  little  season  my  lips  are  dumb, 

But  I  waken  ever, — and  look  for  thee. 
Yea,  ever  each  night  when  the  pale  stars 

gleam 

And  the  mystical  Brethren  pass  me  by, 
This  cloud  of  a  trance  comes  across  my 

dream, 
As  I  seem  in  my  dream  to  die  ! 

0  what  is  this  grass  beneath  our  feet, 
And  what    are    these    beautiful   under- 

blooms  ? 
The  grass  is  the  grass  of  the  churchyard, 

Sweet, 

The  flowers  are   flowers    on  the   quiet 
tombs. 

1  pluck  them  softly,  and  bless  the  dead, 
Silently  o'er  them  I  bend  the  knee, 

But  my  tenderest  blessing  is  surely  said, 
Tho'  my  tears  fall  fast,  when  I  turn  to 

thee. 
For  our  lips  are  tuned  to  the  same  sad 

theme, 

We  think  of  the  loveless  dead,  and  sigh  ; 
Dark  is  the  shadow  across  our  dream, 
For  we  go  in  that  dream  to  die ! 

O  what  is  this  moaning  so  faint  and  low, 

And  what  is  this  crying  from  night  to 

morn? 
The  moaning  is  that  of  the  souls  that  go, 

The  crying  is  that  of  the  souls  new-born. 
The  life-sea  gathers  with  stormy  calls, 

The  wind  blows  shrilly,  the  foam  flies 

free. 
The  great  wave  rises,  the  great  wave  falls, 

I  swim  to  its  height  by  the  side  of  thee  ! 
With  arms  outstretching  and  throats  that 
scream, 

With  faces  that  flash  into  foam  and  fly, 
Our  beings  break  in  the  light  of  a  dream, 

As  the  great  waves  gather  and  die. 

O  what  is  this  Spirit  with  silvern  feet, 
His  bright  head  wrapt  in  a  saffron  veil  ? 

Around  his  raiment  our  wild  arms  beat, 
We  cling  unto  them,  but  faint  and  fail. 


PROEM  TO 


429 


Tis  the  Spirit  that  sits  on  the  twilight  star, 
And  soft  to  the  sound  of  the  waves  sings 

he, 

He  leads  the  chaunt  from  his  crystal  car, 
And  I  join  in  the  mystical  chaunt  with 

thee, 
And  our  beings  burn  with   the  heavenly 

theme, 

For  he  sings  of  wonders  beyond  the  sky, 
Of  a  god-like  dream,  and  of  gods  in  a  dream, 
Of  a  dream  that  cannot  die  ! 

O  closer  creep  to  this  breast  of  mine  ; 

We  rise,  we  mingle,  we  break,  dear  love  ! 
A  space  on  the  crest  of  the  wave  we  shine, 

With  light  and  music  and  mirth  we  move  ; 
Before  and  behind  us  (fear  not,  sweet !) 

Blackens  the  trough  of  the  surging  sea — 
A  little  moment  our  mouths  may  meet, 

A  little  moment  I  cling  to  thee  ; 
Onward  the  wonderful  waters  stream, 

'Tis  vain  to  struggle,  'tis  vain  to  cry — 
We  wake  in  a  dream,  and  we  ache  in  a 
dream, 

And  we  break  in  a  dream,  and  die  ! 

But  who  is  this  other  with  hair  of  flame, 

The  naked  feet,  and  the  robe  of  white  ? 
A  Spirit,  too,  with  a  sweeter  name, 

A  softer  smile,  a  serener  light. 
He  wraps  us  both  in  a  golden  cloud, 

He  thrills  our  frames  with  a  fire  divine, 
Our  souls  are  mingled,  our  hearts  beat  loud, 

My  breath  and  being  are  blent  with  thine  ; 
And    the    sun-rock    flames    with    a    flash 
supreme, 

And  the  starry  waves  have  a  stranger  cry — 
We  climb  to  the  crest  of  our  golden  dream, 

For  we  dream  that  we  cannot  die  ! 

Aye  !  the  cry  rings  loud  in  our  burning  ears, 
And  the  light  flames  bright  on  our  eyes, 

dear  love, 
And  we  know  the  cry  of  the  rolling  years 

As  they  break  on  the  sun-rock  far  above  ; 
And  we  know  the  light  of  the  rock  of  gold, 

As  it  burneth  bright  in  a  starry  sea, 
And  the  glory  deepens  a  thousandfold 

As  I  name  the  immortal  gods  and  thee  ! 
We  shrink  together  beneath  that  gleam, 

We  cling  together  before  that  cry  ; 
We  were  made  in  a  dream,  and  we  fade  in 

a  dream, 
And  if  death  be  a  dream,  we  die  ! 


BALDER  THE  BEAUTIFUL. 
The  gods  are  brethren.     Wheresoe'er 
They  set  their  shrines  of  love  or  fear, 
In  Grecian  woods,  by  banks  of  Nile, 
Where  cold  snows  sleep  or  roses  smile, 
The  gods  are  brethren.     Zeus  the  Sire 
Was  fashion'd  of  the  self-same  fire 
As  Odin  ;  He  whom  Ind  brought  forth 
Hath  his  pale  kinsmen  east  and  north ; 
And  more  than  one  since  life  began 
Hath  known  Christ's  agony  for  Man. 
The  gods  are  brethren.     Kin  by  fate, 
In  gentleness  as  well  as  hate, 
'Mid  heights  that  only  Thought  may  climb 

They  come,  they  go  ;  they  are,  or  seem  ; 
Each,  rainbow'd  from  the  rack  of  Time, 

Casts  broken  lights  across  God's  Dream. 


THE  BIRTH  OF  BALDER. 


BALDER'S  BIRTH-SONG. 

THERE  blent  with  his  growing 

The  leaf  and  the  flower, 
The  wind  lightly  blowing 

Its  balm  from  afar, 
The  smile  of  the  sunshine, 

The  sob  of  the  shower, 
The  beam  of  the  moonshine, 

The  gleam  of  the  star. 
'Mid  shining  of  faces 

And  waving  of  wings, 
With  gifts  from  all  places 

Came  beautiful  things ; 
The  blush  from  the  blossom, 

The  bloom  from  the  corn, 
Blent  into  his  bosom, 

Ere  Balder  was  born. 

As  a  rainbow  in  heaven 

Was  woven  the  rune, 
The  colours  were  seven 

Most  dim  and  divine  : 
Thro'  regions  of  thunder 

Serene  swam  the  moon, 
With  white  rays  of  wonder 

Completing  the  sign. 
The  snow-star  was  gleaming 

Cold,  silent,  and  clear, 
Its  bright  image  beaming 

Deep  down  in  the  mere  ; 
The  night  grew  profounder, 

The  earth  slept  forlorn, 


430 


BALDER   THE  BEAUTIFUL. 


With  the  drift  wrapt  around  her 
Ere  Balder  was  born. 

Beside  a  waste  water 

Lay  Frea  alone, 
In  Asgard  they  sought  her, 

To  earth  she  had  crept ; 
The  Father  was  sitting 

Snow-white  on  his  throne, 
The  night-clouds  were  flitting, 

The  wind-harps  were  swept. 
No  eyes  divine  found  her — 

She  lay  as  one  dead — 
Vast  forests  around  her, 

Black  vapours  o'erhead, — 
She  saw  not, — she  heard  not, — 

But  weary  and  worn, 
Snow-shrouded,  she  stirred  not, 

Ere  Balder  was  born. 

There,  hid  from  the  Father, 

She  brooded  below, 
In  realms  where  pines  gather 

Ice-robed  and  ice-crown'd, 
And  the  great  trees  were  drooping, 

Struck  down  by  the  snow, 
With  chilly  arms  stooping 

To  touch  the  white  ground. 
While  whirlwinds  were  weaving 

Their  raiment  of  cloud, 
She  sat  there  conceiving, 

Dark,  brooding,  and  bow'd  ; 
But  where  the  boughs  thicken' d 

A  bird  sang  one  morn, — 
And  she  kindled  and  quicken'd, 

Ere  Balder  was  born. 

Then  by  that  great  water, 

Within  the  dark  woods, 
The  dawn  broke,  and  brought  her 

A  glimmer  of  Spring  ! 
The  gray  geese  came  crying 

Far  over  the  floods, 
The  black  crane  pass'd,  flying 

With  slow  waft  of  wing. 
And  when  the  moon's  silver 

Was  shed  on  the  mere, 
The  cry  of  the  culver 

Was  heard  far  and  near, 
And  the  owls  to  each  other 

Made  answers  forlorn, — 
And  she  smiled,  the  sad  Mother, 

Ere  Balder  was  born. 


Then  the  peace  and  the  splendour 

Of  powers  of  the  night, 
And  the  strength  that  grows  tender 

Where  dusk  rivers  run, 
The  beam  of  the  moonshine, 

The  soft  starry  light, 
And  the  first  smile  of  sunshine, 

Were  woven  in  one. 
And  they  mingled  within  her 

With  motions  of  earth 
To  strengthen  and  win  her 

To  mystical  birth  ; — 
By  the  pangs  of  a  woman 

The  goddess  was  torn, 
Ere,  with  heart  of  the  human, 

God  Balder  was  born. 

The  wind-gods  were  blowing 

Their  trumpets  of  might, 
The  skies  were  still  snowing, 

And  dark  was  the  wold, — 
With  a  rock  for  her  pillow 

Lay  Frea  that  night, 
Beneath  a  great  willow 

All  leafless  and  cold — 
But  the  earth  to  strange  motion 

Was  stirring  around, 
And  the  ice  of  the  ocean 

Had  split  with  shrill  sound  ; — 
When  coldly  upspringing 

Arose  the  red  morn, 
To  a  sound  as  of  singing 

Bright  Balder  was  born  ! 

His  hair  was  as  golden 

As  lily-hearts  be, 
When,  softly  unfolden, 

From  black  tarns  they  rise,— 
The  lights  of  the  azure, 

The  shades  of  the  sea, 
Blent  into  the  pleasure 
Of  beautiful  eyes  , 
Like  the  aspen  that  lingers 

Where  waters  run  fleet 
Was  the  touch  of  his  fingers, 

The  thrill  of  his  feet ; 
White,  white  as  the  blossom 

That  blows  on  the  thorn, 
On  Frea's  fair  bosom 

Bright  Balder  was  born. 

While  soften'd  and  sadden'd 
With  love  shone  her  face, 


THE  BIRTH  OF  BALDER. 


431 


Uplooking  he  gladden'd 

And  clung  to  her  breast, 
For  a  light  as  of  summer 

Swept  over  the  place, 
When  the  shining  new-comer 

Awoke  from  his  rest  ! 
And  the  willow  and  alder 

Thrill'd  out  unto  bloom, 
And  the  lilac  brought  Balder 

Its  light  and  perfume, 
While  the  merle  sable-suited 

Sang  merry  by  morn, 
And  with  bill  of  gold  fluted 

That  Balder  was  born  ! 

At  the  notes  of  the  singer 

The  sun  glimmer 'd  gay, 
And  touch 'd  with  bright  finger 

The  child  as  he  stirred  ! 
For  the  snow  from  the  mountains 

Was  melting  away, 
And  the  sound  of  the  fountains 

Upleaping  was  heard  ; 
And  the  black  soil  was  broken 

To  radiance  of  flowers, 
While  the  Bow  for  a  token 

Gleam'd  down  thro'  the  showers 
Deep  under  the  fallow 

Now  sprouted  the  corn, 
And  swift  flash'd  the  swallow, 

For  Balder  was  born  ! 

Yea,  again  up  in  heaven 

Was  rainbow'd  the  rune, 
And  the  colours  were  seven 
Most  dim  and  divine : 
Sweet  creatures  work'd  under 

The  sun  and  the  moon, 
Completing  the  wonder 

With  whisper  and  sign. 
With  eyes  brightly  gleaming 

The  squirrel  came  near, 
In  flocks  swam  the  lemming 

Across  the  great  mere, 
And  the  gold-speckled  spider 

Found  Frea  that  morn, 
And  was  busy  beside  her 

When  Balder  was  born. 

And  with  him  came  waking 

The  leaf  and  the  flower, 
The  wind  lightly  shaking 
Its  balm  from  afar, 


The  smile  of  the  sunshine, 

The  sob  of  the  shower, 
The  beam  of  the  moonshine, 

The  gleam  of  the  star. 
'Mid  shining  of  faces 

And  waving  of  wings, 
With  gifts  from  all  places 

Came  beautiful  things  ; 
By  night-time  and  day-time 

No  life  was  forlorn, 
'Twas  leaf-time,  'twas  May-time, 

And  Balder  was  born. 

Yet  the  spell  had  been  woven 

Long  ages  ago, 
That  the  clouds  should  be  cloven, 

The  Father  undone, 
When  the  light  of  the  sunshine, 

The  white  of  the  snow, 
And  the  starshine  and  moonshine, 

Were  mingled  in  one  ; 
When  the  wind  and  the  water, 

The  star  and  the  flower, 
Found  a  goddess,  and  brought  her 

Their  strength  for  a  dower  ; 
Yea,  in  runes  it  was  written, 

With  letters  forlorn, 
That  the  gods  should  be  smitten 

When  Balder  was  born. 

Then  roar'd  the  mad  thunder 

From  regions  afar, 
And  the  world  darken'd  under 

That  wrath  of  the  skies. 
But  the  new-born,  upleaping 

As  bright  as  a  star, 
Awoke  from  his  sleeping 

With  love  in  his  ears  ; — 
And  the  dark  rain  ceased  falling, 

With  slow  silvern  thrills, 
And  the  cuckoo  came,  calling 

Aloud  on  the  hills, 
And  the  glad  Earth  uplifted 

Her  face  to  the  morn, 
And  past  the  storm  drifted, 

For  Balder  was  born. 

...  In  the  sedge  of  the  river 
The  swan  makes  its  nest ; 

In  the  mere,  with  no  quiver, 
Stands  shadow'd  the  crane  ; 

Earth  happy  and  still  is, 
Peace  dwells  in  her  breast, 


432 


BALDER    THE   BEAUTIFUL. 


And  the  lips  of  her  lilies 

Drink  balm  from  the  rain  ; 
The  lamb  in  the  meadow 

Upsprings  with  no  care, 
Deep  in  the  wood's  shadow 

Is  born  the  young  bear  ; 
The  ash  and  the  alder, 

The  flowers  and  the  corn, 
All  waited  for  Balder, — 

And  Balder  is  born  ! 


His  GROWTH  AND  GODHEAD. 

Lovely  as  light  and  blossoms  are, 

And  gentle  as  the  dew, 
A  white  god  stainless  as  a  star, 

Deep-hidden,  Balder  grew. 

For  in  the  time  when  violets  grow, 
And  birds  sing  thro*  the  showers, 

Pale  Frea  left  the  child  below, 
Upon  a  bank  of  flowers. 

And  heavenward  now  on  weary  feet 

The  mighty  goddess  flies, 
And  kneeleth  at  the  Father's  seat, 

And  gazeth  in  his  eyes. 

Around  her  in  those  shadowy  halls 
The  great  gods  darkly  tread. 

Where  is  thy  child  ?  '  each  cold  voice  calls  ; 
Calmly  she  answereth,  '  Dead. 

'  The  arrows  of  the  gods  are  keen, 

An  infant's  heart  is  mild  ; 
Buried  within  the  forest  green, 

Now  slumbereth  my  child. 

1  The  robin  strewed  him  o'er  with  leaves, 

And  closed  his  eyes  of  blue, 
And  overhead  the  spider  weaves 

Her  rune  of  silk  and  dew.' 

Pale  at  the  mighty  banquet  board 

The  Mother  sat  in  pain  : 
The  great  gods  smiling,  with  no  word, 

Drank  deep,  and  breathed  again.  .  .  . 

But  down  within  the  forest  dim 

The  child  divine  lies  quick  ! 
The  slanted  sunlight  comes  to  him 

Thro'  branches  woven  thick. 


He  drinks  no  nurture  of  the  breast, 

No  mother's  kiss  he  knows  ; 
Warm  as  a  song  bird  in  its  nest 

He  feels  the  light,  and  grows. 

Around  him  flock  all  gentle  things 

Which  range  the  forest  free  : 
Each  shape  that  blooms,  each  shape  that 
sings, 

Looks  on  him  silently. 

The  light  is  melted  on  his  lips 

And  on  his  eyes  of  blue, 
And  from  the  shining  leaves  he  sips 

The  sweetness  of  the  dew. 

And  slowly  like  an  earthborn  child 
He  learns  to  walk  and  run — 

A  forest  form,  with  laughter  wild, 
He  wanders  in  the  sun. 

And  now  he  knows  the  great  brown  bear, 

And  sitteth  with  its  young, 
And  of  their  honey  takes  his  share, 

Sucking  with  thirsty  tongue. 

Around  him  as  he  comes  and  goes 

There  clings  a  golden  mist, 
And  in  his  bright  hair  blooms  a  rose, 

And  a  bird  sings  on  his  wrist  ! 

And  wheresoe'er  he  sets  his  feet 
Fair  ferns  and  flowers  spring, 

And  honeysuckles  scented  sweet 
Grow  where  his  fingers  cling. 

He  calls,  and  wood-doves  at  the  cry 

Come  down  to  be  caress'd  ; 
Curl'd  in  his  arms  the  lynx  will  lie, 

Its  lips  against  his  breast. 

O  look  into  his  happy  eyes, 

As  lustrous  as  the  dew  ! 
A  light  like  running  water  lies 

Within  their  depths  of  blue  ; 

And  there  the  white  cloud's  shadow  dim 
Stirs,  mirror'd  soft  and  gray, 

And  far  within  the  dream-dews  swim 
With  melancholy  ray. 

Ev'n  thus  in  beauteous  shape  he  grows, 
Unknown,  unseen,  unheard, 

And  night  by  night  he  takes  repose 
Like  any  flower  or  bird. 


THE  BIRTH  OF  BALDER— THE  FINDING   OF  BALDER.     433 


He  drinks  the  balmy  breath  of  Earth, 

He  feels  the  light  and  rain, 
Till,  like  a  thing  of  mortal  birth, 

He  shares  her  peace  or  pain. 

A  wild  white  shape  with  wondering  eyes 
He  walks  by  wood  and  stream, 

And  softly  on  his  spirit  lies 
The  burthen  of  a  dream. 

His  hair  is  like  the  midnight  sun's, 

All  golden-red  and  bright ; 
But  radiance  as  of  moonrise  runs 

Upon  his  limbs  of  white. 

And  now  the  wood  without  a  sound 

Hushes  its  leaves  in  dread  : 
Beauty  and  mystery  surround 

The  silence  of  his  tread. 

Quietly  as  a  moonbeam  creeps 
He  moves  from  place  to  place  ; 

Soft  steals  the  starlight,  as  he  sleeps, 
To  breathe  upon  his  face. 

The  ground  grows  green  beneath  his  feet, 
While,  trembling  on  the  stem, 

The  pale  flowers  drink  again,  full  sweet, 
The  breath  he  draws  from  them. 

Now  brightly  gleams  the  soft  green  sod, 

The  golden  seeds  are  sown  ; 
O  pale  white  lily  of  a  god, 

Thou  standest  now  full  blown  ! 


A      II. 
?HE  FINDING   OF  BALDER. 


FREA  IN  THE  WOOD. 

BLUE  night.     Along  the  lonely  forest  way 
The  goddess,   mighty-limb'd  and   marble 

white, 

Tall  in  the  shadow  of  the  pines  that  waved 
Their  black  arms  in  the  moonrise  overhead, 
Stole  silent-footed.  Round  her  naked  feet 
The  dews  were  luminous,  and  the  breath  of 

flowers 
Rose  from  the  scented  path  of  grass  and 

fern, 

was  stiller  than  a  maiden's  dream. 


From  grove  to  grove  she  went,  like  one  that 

knew 

Each  shadow  of  that  silent  forest  old, 
And  ever  as  she  went  the  tangled  light 
That  trembled  on  her    thro'    the   woven 

boughs 

Grew  deeper  and  more  dewy,  until  at  last 
She  knew  by  chilly  gleams  upon  the  grass 
That  dawn  was  come.     Still  did  that  um- 
brage deep 

Remain  in  dimness,  tho'  afar  away 
The  hills  were  kindling  with  dull  blood-red 

fires ; 

But  when  the  trumpet  of  the  day  was  blown 
From  the  great  golden  gateways  of  the  sun, 
When  leaf  by  leaf  the  crimson  r,ose  o'  the 

east 

Open'd,  and  leaf  by  leaf  illumed  in  turn 
Glitter'd  the  snowy  lily  of  the  north, 
She  left  the  shelter  of  those  woods,  and  stood 
Under  the  shining  canopy  of  heaven. 

Belore  her  lay  a  vast  and  tranquil  lake, 

And  wading  in  its  shallows  silently 

Great  storks  of   golden  white  and   light 

green  cranes 

Stood  sentinel,  while  far  as  eye  could  see, 
Swam  the  wild  water-lily's  oiled  leaves. 
Still  was  that  place  as  sleep,  yet  evermord 
A  stir  amid  its  stillness  ;  for  behold, 
At  every  breath  of  the  warm  summer  wind 
Blown  on  the  beating  bosom  of  the  lake, 
The  white  swarms  of  the  new-born  lily- 
flowers, 

A  pinch  of  gold-dust  in  the  heart  of  each, 
Rose  from  the  bubbling  depths,  and  open'd 

up, 

And  floated  luminous  with  cups  of  snow. 
Across  that  water  came  so  sweet  an  air, 
It  fell  upon  the  immortal  mother's  brow 
Like  coolest  morning  dew,  and  tho'  she 

stood 

Beneath  the  open  arch  of  heaven,  the  light 
Stole  thro'  the  gauze  of  a  soft  summer  mist 
Most  gentle  and  subdued.  Then  while  she 

paused 
Close  to  the  rippling  shallows  sown  with 

reeds, 
Those  cranes  and  storks  arose  above  her 

head 

In  one  vast  cloud  of  flying  green  and  gold  ; 
And  from  the  under-heaven  innumerable 
The  lilies  upward  to  the  surface  snow'd, 

FF 


434 


BALDER    THE   BEAUTIFUL. 


Till  all  the  waters  glitter'd  gold  and  white  ; 
And  lo  !  the  sun  swept  shining  up  the  east, 
And  thro'  the  cloud  of  birds,  and  on  the 

lake, 

Shot  sudden  rays  of  light  miraculous, — 
Until  the  goddess  veil'd  her  dazzled  eyes, 
And  with  the  heaving  whiteness  at  her  feet 
Her  bosom  heaved,  till  of  that  tremulous 

life 
She  seem'd  a  throbbing  part  ! 

Tall  by  the  marge 

The  goddess  tower'd,  and  her  immortal  face 
Was  shining  as  anointed  ;  then  she  cried, 
'  Balder ! '  and  like  the  faint  cry  of  a  bird 
That  passeth  overhead,  the  sound  was  borne 
Between  the  burning  ether  and  the  earth. 
Then  once  again  she  called,  outstretching 

arms, 
'  Balder  ! '     Upon  her  face  the    summer 

light 

Trembled  in  benediction,  while  the  voice 
Was  lifted  up  and  echoed  till  it  died 
Far  off  amid  the  forest  silences. 

A  space  she  paused,  smiling  and  listening, 
Gazing  upon  the  lilies  as  they  rose 
Large,  luminously  fair,  and  new-baptized  ; 
And  once  again  she  would  have  call'd  aloud, 
When  far  across  the  waters  suddenly 
There  shone  a  light  as  of  the  morning  star  ; 
Which  coming  nearer  seem'd  as  some  bright 

bird 

Floating  amid  the  lilies  and  their  leaves, 
And  presently,  approaching  closer  still, 
Assumed  the  likeness  of  a  shining  shape, 
Who,  with  white  shoulders  from  the  waters 

reaching, 

And  sunlight  burning  on  his  golden  hair, 
Swam  like  a  swan.     Upon  his  naked  arms 
The  amber  light  was  melted,  while  they 

clove 

The  crystal  depths  and  softly  swept  aside 
The  glittering  lilies  and  their    clustering 

leaves ; 

And  on  the  forehead  of  him  burnt  serene 
A  light  as  of  a  pearl  more  wonderful 
Than  ever  from  the  crimson  seas  of  Ind 
Was  snatch'd  by  human  hand  ;  for  pearl  it 

seem'd, 

Tho'  blood-red,  and  as  lustrous  as  a  star. 
Him  Frea  breathless  watch'd,  for  all  the  air 
Was  golden  with  his  glory  as  he  came  ; 


And  o'er  his  head  the  bird-cloud  hover'd 

bright 
With  murmurs  deep  ;  and  thro"  the  lake  he 

swam 
With  arm-sweeps  swift,  till  in  the  shallows 

bright, 

Still  dripping  from  the  kisses  of  the  waves, 
He  rose  erect  in  loveliness  divine. 
The  lustre  from  his  ivory  arms  and  limbs 
Stream' d  as  he  stood,  and  from  his  yellow 

hair 

A  glory  rain'd  upon  his  neck  and  breast, 
While  burning  unextinguish'd  on  his  brow 
Shone  that  strange  star. 

Then  as  he  shining  rose, 
And  on  her  form  the  new  effulgence  fell, 
The  goddess,  with  her  face  beatified, 
Yet  gentle  as  a  mortal  mother's,  cried 
'  Balder  !  my  Balder ! ' — and  while  from  all 

the  woods, 

And  from  the  waters  wide,  and  from  the  air 
Still  rainbow'd  with  the  flashing  flight  of 

birds, 

Innumerable  echoes  answer'd,  '  Balder  !  '— 
Clad  in  his  gentle  godhead  Balder  stood, 
Bright,  beautiful,  and  palpably  divine. 


' 


II. 
THE  SHADOW  IN  THE  WOOD. 


'  Mother  1 '  he  said,  and  on  that  mother's 

face 

Fixing  the  brightness  of  his  starry  eyes, 
He  kiss'd  her,  smiling.   E'en  as  sunlight  falls 
Upon  the  whiteness  of  some  western  cloud. 
Irradiating  and  illuming  it, 
His  beauty  smote  her  sadness  :  silently 
She  trembled  ;  and  her  large  immortal  orbs 
Were  raised  to  heaven.     For  a  space  she 

stood 

O'er-master'd  by  that  splendour,  but  at  last, 
While  softly  from  her  forehead  and  her 

cheeks 

The  loving  rapture  ebb'd,  and  once  again 
Her  face  grew  alabaster  calm  and  cold, 
Her  soul  found  speech. 

'  O  Balder  !  best  beloved ! 
God  of  the  sunlight  and  the  summer  stars, 
White  Shepherd  of  the  gentle  beasts  and 

birds, 
Benign -eyed  watcher  of  all  beauteous  things, 


THE  FINDING   OF  BALDER. 


435 


Thou  know'st  me  !  thou  rememberest !  thou 

art  here, 
Supreme,  a  god,  my  Son  ! — Within  thine 

eyes 

Immortal  innocence  and  mortal  peace 
Are  blent  to  love  and  gentleness  divine  ; 
And  tho'  I  left  thee  in  these  woods  a  babe, 
Fair  and  unconscious  as  a  fallen  flower, 
And  tho'  I  have  not  watch'd  thy  beauty  grow, 
I  come  again  to  seek  thee,  and  behold 
Thou  know'st  me— thou  rememberest !  thou 

art  here, 
Supreme,  a  god,  my  Son  !     Blest  be  those 

powers 

To  whose  lone  keeping  I  committed  thee  ! 
The  heavens  have  shone  upon  thee,  and 

the  boughs 
Have  curtain'd  thee  for  slumber,  and  the 

rain 
Hath  smooth'd    thy   soft    limbs  with  its 

silvern  fingers, 

And  gently  ministrant  to  thee  have  been 
The  starlight  and  the  moonlight  and  the 

dew, 

And  in  their  seasons  all  the  forest  flowers  ; 
And  from  the  crimson  of  divine  deep  dawns 
And  from  the  flush  of  setting  suns,  thy 

cheeks 

Have  gather'd  such  a  splendour  as  appals 
The  vision,  even  mine.     Balder  !  beloved  ! 
Speak  to  "me !  tell  me  how  thy  soul  hath 

fared 
Alone  so  long  in  these  green  solitudes. ' 

She  ceased,  and  Balder  smiled  again,  and 

took 

Her  hand  and  held  it  as  he  answer' d  her  ; 
And  ne'er  was  sound  of  falling  summer 

showers 

On  boughs  with  lilac  laden  and  with  rose, 
Or  cuckoo-cries  o'er  emerald  uplands  heard, 
Or  musical  murmurs  of  dark  summer  dawns, 
More    sweet    than    Balder 's    voice.      '  O 

Mother,  Mother,' 

It  answer'd,  '  when  I  saw  thee  from  afar, 
Silent,  stone-still,  with  shadow  at  thy  feet, 
I  knew  thee  well,  for  nightly  evermore 
I  have  seen  thy  shape  in  sleep."     And  while 

the  face 

Of  the  great  goddess  kindled  once  again 
With  its  maternal  love  ineffable, 
He  added,    'Thou  shalt  read  me  all  my 

dream ! 


For  in  a  dream  here  have  I  grown  and 

thriven, 

With  such  dim  rapture  as  those  lilies  feel 
Awakening  and  uprising  mystically 
From  darkness  to  the  brightness  of  the  air  ; 
And  growing  in  a  dream  I  have  beheld 
All  things  grow  gladder  with  me,  sun  and 

star, 
Strange  fronds,  and  all  the  wonders  of  the 

wood; 
Till  round  me,  with  me,  soul  and  part  of 

me, 
This  world  hath  kindled  like  an  opening 

rose. 

And  happy  had  I  been  as  any  bird 
Singing  full-throated  in  the  summer  light, 
But  for  some  dark  and  broken  images 
Which  come  to  me  in  sleep— yea  come 

each  night 
When  from  the  starlight  and  the  silvern 

moon 

I  fade  with  closed  eyes.     But  thou  art  here, 
And  in  the  love  of  thy  celestial  looks 
I  read  the  answer  to  the  mystery 
Of  my  dim  earthly  being.' 

As  he  spake, 

Across  the  goddess'  face  and  thro'  her  frame 
There  pass'd  the  wind  of  an  old  prophecy, 
Bending  her  downward  as  a  storm-swept 

bough. 
'  In  sleep  !  what  shapes  have  come  to  thee 

in  sleep  ? ' 
She  cried,  and  Balder  answer'd,  •  It  were 

long 

To  tell  thee  all,  my  Mother  !  but  meseems 
I  have  dream'd  nightly  of  mysterious  forms 
White-brow'd  like  thee  and  very  beautiful — 
Strange  spirits,  each  more  bright  than  is  a 

star, 

In  robes  of  linen  and  of  whitest  wool, 
And  some  all  raimentless  as  leaf  or  flower, 
And  in  their  nakedness  the  more  divine.' 
Then  Frea  smiled  and  answer'd,  '  That  is 

well— 

These,  Balder,  are  thy  sisters  and  my  kin, 
Less  beautiful  than  thou,  yet  very  fair.' 
And  Balder  said,  '  Ofttimes  mine  eyes  have 

seen 

Great  shapes  caparison'd  in  burning  gold, 
Tall  as  the  tallest  pine  within  these  woods, 
Who  flash'd  red  brands  together,  or  upheld 
Bright  cups  of  ruby,  gazing  on  each  other ! ' 

FF2 


436 


BALDER    THE  BEAUTIFUL. 


-, 


And  Frea  smiled  and  said,  '  That  too  is 

well— 
Those,   Balder,  are  thy  brethren  and  thy 

peers, 
Great  gods,    yet  less  than  thou.'     Then 

Balder's  voice 
Sank  lower,   saying,   '  Three  times  in  my 

sleep 
I  have  seen  my  Father  1 ' 

Frea's  cheek  was  blanch'd, 
And  pressing  one  white  hand  upon  her 

heart, 
'  How  seem'd  he  in  thy  sleep  ? '  the  goddess 

sigh'd, 
'Frown'd  he  or  smiled  he?  speak  !'     And 

Balder  said, 

In  solemn  whispers,  sinking  ever  lower, 
'  My  soul  perceived  a  darkness  and  a  sound 
Of  many  voices  wailing,  and  I  seem'd 
As  one  that  drifts  upon  a  sunless  water, 
Amid  the  washing  of  a  weary  rain — 
Wet  were  my  locks  and  dripping,  and  my 

limbs 

Hung  heavily  as  lead — while  wave  by  wave 
I  floated  to  some  vapour-shrouded  shore. 
At  last,  wash'd  in  upon  the  slippery  weeds, 
I  saw  before  me  on  a  mountain  top 
One  brooding  like  a  cloud  ;  and  as  a  cloud 
At  first  he  seem'd,  yet  ever  as  I  look'd 
Grew  shapen  to  an  image  terrible, 
With  eyes  eternal  gazing  down  at  mine. 
And  as  I  rose  a  voice  came  from  the  cloud 
Like  far-off  muffled  thunder,  crying  "  Balder! 
Come  hither,  my  son  Balder ! " — when  in 

fear 
I  scream'd  and  woke,  and  saw  the  daylight 

dance 
Golden  upon  the  forests  and  the  meres.' 

He  ceased ;  and  utter  pity  fill'd  his  soul 
To  see  across  his  beauteous  Mother's  face 
The  scorching  of  unutterable  pain  ; 
Then  thrice  the  troubled  goddess  raised  her 

eyes 
And  gazed  up  northward  where  the  rose-red 

shafts 
Of  dawn  were  trembling  on  the  cloud-capt 

towers 

Of  Asgard  ;  thrice  the  sorrow  master 'd  her  ; 
But  soon  her  strong  soul  conquer'd,  and 

she  forced 
A  strange  sad  look  of  calm.     '  If  that  be  all, 


Take  courage — and  I  do  conjure  thee  now, 
Fear  not  thy  Father.     If  that  Father  ever 
Hath  cherish'd  dread  of  thee,  the  loveliness 
Of  thy  completed  godhead  shall  disarm 
His  wrath, — yea,  win  his  love."    Her  gentle 

hand 

Clasp' d  his  with  more  than  mortal  tender- 
ness, 

And  in  his  eyes  she  gazed  again  and  drank 
The  solace  of  his  beauty  while  the  dawn 
Encrimson'd  both  and  all  the  heavens  and 

air, 

But  Balder  trembled  shrinking  to  her  side, 
And  cried,   with   quick  eyes  glancing  all 

around, 
'  Mother,  that  is  not  all ! ' 

'  O  speak  no  more,' 

The  goddess  said,  '  if  aught  else  terrible 
Thine  eyes  have  vision'd  or  thy  sense  hath 

dream'd, 
Speak,    speak,    no    more ! '    but     Balder 

answer'd,  '  Mother ! 

A  weight  is  on  my  heart,  and  I  must  speak. 
Last  night  I  dream'd  the  strangest  dream 

of  dreams  ! 
Methought    I    in    the  summer  woodland 

walk'd 
And  pluck'd  white  daffodils  and  pansies 

blue, 

And  as  I  went  I  sang  such  songs  as  sing 
The  spirits  of  the  forest  and  the  stream  ; 
And  presently  the  golden  light  went  in, 
But  balmy  darkness  follow'd,  for  the  rain 
Patter'd  with  diamond  dews  innumerable 
On  the  green  roof  of  umbrage  overhead. 
I  stood  and  waited,  listening.     Then  me- 

thought 

I  heard  a  voice  from  far  away — thy  voice 
It  seem'd,  my  Mother — murmur  three  times 

••  Balder ! " 
And  as  it  ceased,  there  pierced  the  wood's 

green  heart 
A  shriek  so  sharp  and  shrill  that  all  my 

blood 

Turn'd  cold  to  listen  !     Suddenly  I  felt 
My  brow  was  damp  with  chilly  drops  of 

rain, 

And  looking  up  I  saw  that  every  leaf 
Had  wither'd  from  the  branches  overhead, 
Leaving    them    black    against    a    sunless 

heaven 
Of  dark  and  dreary  gray.     Again  I  heard 


THE  FINDING  OF  BALDER. 


437 


Thy  voice  moan  "  Balder,"  and  methought 

the  boughs 
Toss'd  their  wild  arms  above  and  echoed 

"Balder," 

When  lo,  the  black  and  miserable  rain 
Came  slower  and  slower,  wavering  through 

the  dark, 

Till  every  drop  was  as  a  flake  of  white 
Falling  upon  the  ground  as  light  as  wool ! 
And  terror  seized  me,  and  I  felt  my  heart 
Cold  as  a  stone,  and  from  my  hands  the 

flowers 
Dropt,  wither'd,  with  that  whiteness  on  the 

ground. 

I  tried  to  stir,  and  could  not  stir  ;  I  sought 
To  shake  the  chilly  flakes  from  off  my  neck, 
But  could  not ;  and  each  time  I  sought  to 

cry, 
My  cries  were  frozen  in  my  throat.     Now 

mark  ! 
O  mark,  my  mother,  for  these  things  are 

strange  ! 
As  thus  I  stood,  mine  eyes  were  'ware  of 

ONE, 
A  Shape  with  shadowy  arms  outspread  like 

wings, 

Which,  hovering  o'er  me  even  as  a  hawk, 
Fix'd  on  my  face  its  fatal  luminous  eyes. 
O  Mother,  thatwan  shape !  The  forestholds, 
In  form  of  beast  or  bird  or  glittering  snake, 
No  likeness  of  its  awful  lineaments  ! 
For  ever  as  its  features  seem'd  to  take 
Clearness  and  semblance,    they  did  fade 

away 

Into  a  swooning  dimness  ;  and  it  seem'd 
Now  shapen  and  now  shapeless,  blowing 

amid 

The  wonder  of  that  wan  and  sunless  shower. 
Yet  ever  as  I  gazed  it  gazed  again, 
And  ever  circling  nearer  seem'd  in  act 
To  swoop  upon  me  with  cold  claws  and 

clutch 

The  heart  that  flutter'd  \\  ildly  in  my  breast. 
At  last  that  look  became  too  much  to  bear  : 
Answering  at  last  thy  scream,  I  scream" d 

aloud  ; 

And  as  I  scream'd,  I  woke — and  saw  again 
The  sunlight  on  the  forests  and  the  meres. ' 

Now  ev'n  as  Balder  spake  the  goddess'  face 
Was  like  a  shrouded  woman's  :  once  again 
She  gazed  at  heaven,   and  her  eyes  were 
glazed 


With  agony  and  despair,  for  now  she  knew 
That  shape  which   Balder  had  beheld  in 

dream 
Was  he  whom  mortal  man  have  christen'd 

Death. 
At  last  she  spake,  and  all  her  proud  soul 

flash' d, 

Rebuking  its  own  terror.     '  Unto  all, 
Yea  even  unto  gods  upon  their  thrones, 
Such  shadows  come  in  sleep  ;  thy  Father 

even 

Hath  had  his  visions,  and  I  too  have  mine  ; 
But  be  of  comfort  since  thou  art  my  Son, 
For  he  who  hover'd  o'er  thee  in  thy  dream 
Is  impotent  against  the  strength  of  gods. 
Haunter  is  he  of  this  sad  nether  sphere, 
And  on  the  little  life  of  bird  and  beast, 
And  on  the  life  of  flowers  and  falling  leaves, 
His  breath  comes  chill,  but  to  the  Shapes 

divine 

He  is  as  wind  that  bloweth  afar  below 
The  silence  of  the  peaks.' 

Ev'n  as  she  spake, 
On  her  bright  Balder  gazed  not,  but  with 

eyes 

Fix'd  as  in  fascination,  cried  aloud 
1  Look  I  look  /' — and  pointed. 

Close  to  that  bright  spot  X 
Whereon  they  stood  in  the  full  flame  of 

day, 

The  forest  open'd,  flashing  green  and  gold, 
Sparkling  wilh  quick  and  rapturous  thrill  of 

leaves 
And  rainbow-flush  of   flowers.      Upon  a 

bough 

That  reach' d  its  heavy-laden  emerald  arm 
Into  the  summer  light  beyond  the  shade, 
There  clung,  with  panting  breast  and 

fluttering  wings, 

A  trembling  ringdove  whose  soft  iris'd  eyes 
Were  fix'd  like  Balder's  on  some  shape  of 

dread 

Just  visible  in  the  shadow,  lying  low 
Under  the  scented  umbrage  of  the  wood. 
A  Form,  yet  indistinct  as  the  green  sheen  ; 
A  Face,  yet  featureless  7  a  head  with  eyes 
Now  faint  as  drops  of  dew,  now  strangely 

bright 
As  lustrous  gems.     Crouch'd  on  the  under- 

grass, 
It  watch'd  in  serpent  fashion  every  thrill 


BALDER    THE  BEAUTIFUL. 


Of  that  bright  bird  ;  while  all  around,  the 

air 

Was  mad  and  merry  with  the  summer  song 
Of  choirs  that  sat  alive  on  leafy  boughs, 
Singing  aloud ! 

Then  came  a  hush,  wherein 
Every  faint  pulse  of  life  in  those  great 

woods 
Was  heard  to  beat ;  and  then  the  fated 

bird 
Cooing  and  quivering  fluttered  from  the 

bough, 
And  'mid  the  summer  sheen  beyond  the 

shade, 

With  one  last  dying  tremor  of  the  wings, 
Lay  stricken  still.  .  .  .  Among  the  darken- 
ing leaves 
There  was  a  stir,  as  creeping  thro'  the 

gloom, 
Scarce  visible,  fixing  eyes  on    that  dead 

dove, 

Forth  from  his  lair  the  form  began  to  crawl. 
And  Balder  sicken'd,  and  his  sense  grew 

cold. 

But  with  a  queenly  gesture  Frea  rose, 
And  pointed  with  her  white  imperious  hand 
Into  the  forest.     Suddenly  the  shape 
Was  'ware  of  that  pale  goddess  and  her 

son 

More  beauteous  and  insufferably  bright. 
A  moment  in  the  dimness  of  his  lair 
He  paused,  uprearing,  as  in  act  to  spring, 
A  head  half  human,  with  a  serpent's  eyes  ; 
Then,  conscious  of  some  presence  that  he 

feared, 

All  swift  and  silent,  like  a  startled  snake, 
He  faded  back  into  the  shadowy  woods,  y 

II. 

FULL  GODHEAD. 

O  whither  are  they  wending  side  by  side 

Thro'  that  green  forest  wide  ? 
Down  the  deep  dingles,  amid  ferns  and 
flowers, 

They  wander  hours  and  hours. 
Bright-lock'd,  with  limbs  of  alabaster  white, 

Now  gleaming  in  the  light, 
Now  'mong  the  dusky  umbrage  of  the  glade 

Deep'ning  to  amber  shade, 
Their  eyes  on  one  another,  whither  away 

Do  these  Immortals  stray  ? 


She  murmurs,  '  Thou  shall  mark  all  things 

that  be ; 

The  rivers  and  the  sea, 
The  mountains  that  for  ever  crimson'd  lie 

Against  the  arctic  sky, 
The  meteors  that  across  the  pale  pole  flit, 

Strangely  illuming  it  ; 
And  thou  shalt  look  on  gods,  thy  kin  and 

mine, 

Since  thou  too  art  divine.' 
Divine ! — The  forest  glimmers  where  he  goes 

To  crimson  and  to  rose  ! 
And  wheresoe'er  he  comes  no  creature  fears  ; 

Each  lingers,  sees,  and  hears. 
The  boughs  bend  down  to  touch  his  yellow 

hair  ; 

Around  his  white  feet  bare 
The  grass  waves  amorous  ;  on  his  shoulder 

white 

The  singing  birds  alight, 
Singing  the  sweeter  ;  and  in  spaces  clear 

The  brown-eyed  dappled  deer 
With  tremulous  ear  and  tail  around  him 

stand, 

Licking  his  outstretch'd  hand 
With  warm  rough  tongues.     He  sings — all 

things  around 

Are  husht  to  hear  the  sound  ! 
He  smiles— all  things  are  smiling — wood 

and  stream 

With  some  new  glory  gleam, 
Dark  branches  blossom,  and  the  greensward 

nigh 
Is  sunnier  than  the  sky ! 

She  murmurs,  '  They  have  cherish'd  thee 

indeed, 

In  answer  to  thy  need. 
Ere  thou  wast  born,  into  thy  veins  they 

grew, 

Earth,  sunlight,  air,  and  dew, 
The  flower,  the  leaf,   star's  glimmer  and 

bird's  song ; 

And  these  have  made  thee  strong 
With  other  strength  than  ours;  for  ne'er, 

till  now, 

On  any  immortal  brow 
Have  I  beheld  such  living  splendour  shine 

As  lies  this  hour  on  thine. 
O  sunbeam  of  the  gods  !  O  fairer  far 

Than  ev'n  Immortals  are  ! 
Divinest,  gentlest,  by  the  glad  Earth  given 
To  be  a  lamp  in  heaven ! ' 


THE  FINDING   OF  BALDER. 


439 


Divine ! — The    boughs  shook  down  their 

shafts  of  green 

And  gleam' d  to  golden  sheen  ; 
The  silvern  snake  stole  from  the  dark  tree- 
root 

And  twined  round  Balder's  foot 
With  happy  eyes  ;  the  tiger-moth  and  bee 

About  him  hover'd  free  ; 
With  yellow  aureole  his  head  was  crown'd, 

And  his  bright  body  around 
There  swam  a  robe  of  sunshine  scented 

sweet, 
Clothing  him  head  to  feet. 

She  crieth,  '  Could  the  Father  see  thee  there, 

While  on  thy  silken  hair 
The  soft  light  trembles  like  a  shining  hand! 

Couldst  thou  before  him  stand, 
Flowers  round  thy  feet,  a  dove  upon  thy 

wrist, 

Earth-blest  and  heaven-kist, 
Would  he  not  smile?  would  he  not  scorn 

full  soon 

The  wearily  woven  rune 
Which  said  that  sorrow  should  be  born 

when  thou 

Didst  break  with  orient  brow 
The  night-cloud  of  the  Earth  ?  O  Son  !  my 

Son! 

The  crimson  thread  is  spun, 
The  snow-white  bud  is  blown,  and  now, 

behold  ! 

The  branch  with  fruit  of  gold 
Hath  grown  full  straight  and  swings  i'  the 

summer  shine 
Ineffably  divine.' 

He  questions,    '  Whither  go  we  ? '   She 

replies, 

'  To  that  dim  Land  which  lies 
Ev'n  as  a  cloud  around  the  Father's  feet ! ' 

He  smiles,  his  pulses  beat 
With  brighter  rapture.     '  Shall  mine  eyes 

then  see 

My  Father  ? '  crieth  he  ; 
1  Where  dwells  he?  and  my  brethren,  where 

dwell  they?' 

She  answereth,  '  Far  away  ! ' 
Then,  her  face  darken'd  by  some  dreamy 

dread, 
She  moves  with  sadder  tread. 

The  shadows  grow  around  them  as  they  stray 
From  glade  to  glade  ;  their  way 


Winds  still  'mong  flowers  and  leaves,  where 

day  and  night, 

Both  sleepless  and  both  bright, 
One  golden  and  one  silvern,  come  and  go. 

Nor,  when  dark  twilights  sow 
Their  asphodels  in  the  broad  fields  of  blue, 

And  a  cold  summer  dew 
Gleams  on  the  grass,  and  moths  with  fiery 

eyes 

Flit,  and  the  night-jar  cries, 
Doth  Balder  glimmer  less  divine.  Ah,  nay ! 

Dim  things  that  know  not  day 
Find  him  and  love  him  ;  drinking  his  pure 

breath 

The  white  owl  hovereth  ; 
About  his  footprints  in  the  faint  moon-ray 

Wild  lynxes  leap  and  play  ; 
The  ringdoves  on  the  branches  brood ;  meek 

hares 

Creep  from  their  grassy  lairs 
To  look  upon  him.     So  he  goeth  by 

Of  all  things  that  descry 
Beloved,  and  missed  ;  around  him  like  a 

veil 

The  moonbeams  cluster  pale, 
And  all  the  eyes  of  heaven  with  soft  dews 

swim, 
As  they  gaze  down  on  him. 

But  now  they  leave  the  mighty  woods,  and 

pass 

Thro'  valleys  of  deep  grass, 
Sprinkled  with  saxifrage  and  tormentil ; 

And  many  a  mountain  rill 
Leaps  by  them,   singing.     Far  away,   On 

high, 

They  mark  against  the  sky 
Blue-shadow'd    mountains    crown'd    with 

sparkling  snow  ; 
And  thitherward  they  go. 

Thro'   lonely  mountain  valleys    in  whose 

breast 

The  white  grouse  makes  its  nest, 
And  where  in  circles  wheel  the  goshawk 

keen 

And  fleet-wing'd  peregrine  ; 
Past  torrents  gashing  the  dark  heathery 

height 

With  gleams  of  hoary  white, 
Their  shining  feet  now  fall,  and  where  they 

fare 
Faint  rainbows  fill  the  air 


440 


BALDER    THE  BEAUTIFUL. 


And  span  the  streams  ;  with  sound  of  rip- 
pling raan 

The  cataracts  leap  amain, 
The  deer  cry  from  the  heights,  and  all  around 

Is  full  of  summer  sound. 

Silent,  upon  the  topmost  peak  they  come, 

By  precipices  dumb 
And  melancholy  rocks  girt  round  ;  and  so 

They  reach  the  realms  of  snow. 
Far  o'er  their  heads  a  hooded  eagle  wings 

In  ever-widening  rings, 
Till  in  the  blinding  glory  of  the  day 

A  speck  he  fades  away. 
Then  Balder's  eyes  gaze  down.     Stretch'd 
far  beneath, 

Forest  and  field  and  heath, 
Netted  with  silvern  threads  of  springs  and 
streams, 

Shine  in  the  summer  beams— 
And  valley  after  valley  farther  on 
Fades  dim  into  the  sun. 

He  crieth,  '  Far  away  methinks  I  mark 

A  mighty  Forest  dark, 
Crown'd  by  a  crimson  mist ;  yonder  it  lies, 

Stretching  into  the  skies, 
And  farther  than  its  darkness  nought  I  see.' 

And  softly  answereth  she, 
'  O    Balder !   'tis    the    Ocean.     Vast    and 
strange, 

It  changeth  without  change, 
Washing  with  weary  waves  for  evermore 

The  dark  Earth's  silent  shore.' 
And  Balder  spake  not,  but  he  gazed  again 

Thro'  the  soft  mist  of  rain 
Which  curtain'd  that  new  wonder  from  his 
sight. 

At  last,  when  day  and  night 
Have  passed,  they  cross  a  purple  cape  and 

stand 

On  shores  of  golden  sand, 
And  pausing  silent,  see  beneath  the  sky 

The  mighty  Ocean  lie. 


IV. 

THE  MAN  BY  THE  OCEAN. 

Calmly  it  lieth,  limitless  and  deep, 

In  windless  summer  sleep, 
And  from  its  fringe,  cream-white  and  set 
with  shells, 

A  drowsy  murmur  swells, 


While  in  its  shallows,  on  its  yellow  sands, 

Smiling,  uplifting  hands, 
Moves  Balder,  beckoning  with  bright  looks 
and  words 

The  snow-white  ocean-birds. 
He  smiles — the  heavens  smile  answer  !    All 
the  sea 

Is  glistering  glassily. 
Far  out,  blue-black  amid  the  waters  dim, 

Leviathan  doth  swim, 

Spouts  fountain-wise,  roars  loud,  then  sink- 
ing slow, 

Seeks  the  green  depths  below. 
All  silent.     All  things  sleeping  in  the  light, 

And  all  most  calmly  bright ! 

He  walks  the  weed-strewn  strand,  and 
where  the  waves 

Creep  into  granite  caves, 
Green-paven,  silver-fretted,  roof  d  with  rose, 

He  like  a  sunbeam  goes, 
And  ocean-creatures  know  him.    The  black 
seal 

Out  of  the  darkness  steal 
With  gentle  bleat,  or  with  their  lambs  arise, 

Their  dark  and  dewy  eyes 
Uplooking  into  his  ;  the  cormorants  green, 

Which  ranged  in  black  rows  preen 
Their  dusky  plumage,  at  his  footstep's  sound 

Turn  snake-like  necks  around, 
But  rise  not ;  o'er  his  head  the  white  terns  fly 

With  shrill  unceasing  cry  ; 
And  out  of  caverns  come  the  rock-doves 
fleet, 

Alighting  at  his  feet ! 
Across  the  waters  darts  a  shaft  supreme 

Of  strange  and  heavenly  gleam, 
That  doth  his  consecrated  form  enfold 

Like  to  a  robe  of  gold, — 
While  all  the  Ocean  gladdeneth  anew, 

Stretch'd  bright  beneath  the  blue. 

But  what  is  this  he  findeth  on  his  way, 

Here,  where  the  golden  ray 
Falleth  on  sands  'neath  crimson  crags  that 

rise 

Dark  'gainst  the  great  blue  skies  ? 
What  is  this  shape  that,  breathing  soft  and 

deep, 

Lies  on  its  side  asleep, 
Here  on  the  strand  where  drifted  sea-weeds 

cling  ? 
Is  it  some  ocean  thing, 


THE  FINDING   OF  BALDER. 


441 


Crept  from  the  emerald  darkness  of  the  brine 

To  bask  \  the  summer  shine  ? 
Is  it  some  gentle  monster  whose  green  home 

Lies  far  below  the  foam  ? 
Softly  he  sleeps,  while  on  his  closed  eyes 

The  summer  sunlight  lies  ; 
Around  his  face,  that  seemeth  wildly  fair, 

Hang  tawny  locks  of  hair, 
On  dusky  shoulders  falling  loosely  down  ; 

And  lo,  his  cheeks  are  brown 
With  kisses  of  the  sun,  and  round  his  limbs 

A  light  like  amber  swims 
Divinely  clear  ;  and  by  his  side  is  thrown 

A  spear  of  walrus-bone, 
A  bear-skin  blanket,  and  a  seal  hide  thong  ; 

So  sleeps  he,  brown  and  strong  ; 
And  nought  that  lieth  upon  land  or  sea 

Seemeth  more  strange  than  he, 
Like  some  wild  birth  of  ocean  wash'd  to 
land, 

And  cast  upon  the  sand 
With  many  a  drifting  weed  and  waif  beside. 

1  O  Mother ! '  Balder  cried, 
Suddenly  falling  on  his  bended  knee, 

'  What  shape  is  this  I  see  ? 
It  sleeps — it  breathes— it  lives  ! '    And  Frea 

said, 

Scarce  turning  her  proud  head, 
'  It  is  a  mortal  man  not  worth  thy  care  ! 

Ev'n  as  the  birds  of  the  air 
They  are  born,  they  gladden,  and  they  come 

and  go. ' 

But  Balder,  stooping  low, 
Passing  soft  fingers  o'er  the  sleeper's  side, 

And  smiling  sweetly,  cried, 
'  Awake,   awake ! '    and    gently  from    the 

strand 

He  raised  one  strong  brown  hand. 
4  Hush  ! '  said  the  pallid  goddess,  sighing 

deep, 

'  Lest  he  awake  from  sleep, 
And  touch  him  not,  lest  from  his  mortal 

breath 

Thou  know'st  the  taint  of  Death. ' 
1  Death  ! '  Balder  echoed  with  a  quick  sharp 

pain  ; 

And  Frea  spake  again, 
'  Nought  on  this  nether  sphere  which  foster'd 

thee, 

But  drinks  mortality  ; 
Fade  not  the  leaf,  the  lily,  and  the  rose  ? 
Yea,  and  the  oak-tree  knows 


Only  its  season  ; — in  their  seasons  all 

Are  fashion'd,  fade,  and  fall  — 
Birds  on  the  boughs,  and  beasts  within  the 

brake, 

Yea,  ev'n  the  hawk  and  snake, 
Are  born  to  perish ;  and  this  creature  shares 

An  earthly  lot  like  theirs.' 
She  paused ;    for  suddenly  in  the  bright 

sun-ray 

God  Balder's  cheeks  grew  gray 
And  sunken — his  eyes  dim  ; — a  moment's 

space 

Across  his  troubled  face 
Pass'd  darkness.    Frea  quail'd.    A  moment 

more, 

And  that  strange  shade  pass'd  o'er, 
And  Balder's  looks  again  grew  beautiful. 

O'erhead,  as  white  as  wool, 
The  calm  clouds   melted  in  the  burning 

blue; 

Beneath,  the  great  seas  grew 
Stiller  and  calmer,  while  the  immortal  one 

Stood  dreaming  in  the  sun, 
On  that  dark  sleeper  fixing    eyes  grown 

bright 
With  heavenly  love  and  light. 

1  O  come  ! '  the  goddess  cried,  and  took  his 
hand. 

Along  the  shining  strand 
They  pass'd,  but  evermore  god  Balder's  face 

Turn'd  backward  to  the  place 
Where  he  had  left  the  weary  wight  asleep. 

Then,  as  beside  the  Deep 
They  wander'd  slowly  onward,  Frea  told 

Strange  tales  and  legends  old 
Of  living  men,  and  how  they  came  to  be, 

And  how  they  bend  the  knee 
To  gods  they  know  not,  till  beneath  the  sun 

They  die,  and  all  is  done. 

And  ever  her  finger  pointed  as  she  spoke 

To  wreaths  of  light-blue  smoke 
Upcurling  heavenward  o'er  the  sleeping  seas 

From  fishing  villages. 
Love  in  his  heart  and  wonder  on  his  brow, 

Bright  Balder  hearken'd  now 
In  silence.    '  Far  beyond  those  lonely  woods 

And  these  sea-solitudes, 
Peopling  the  dark  Earth,  living  forms  ilke 
these 

Gather  as  thick  as  bees  : — 


442 


BALDER    THE  BEAUTIFUL. 


Shapen  like  gods,  yet  perishable  ;  born 

For  ever  night  and  morn, 
And  night  and  morn  for  ever  vanishing. 

An  old  dark  doom  doth  cling 
Around  them  and  all  kindred  things  that 
bloom 

Out  of  the  green  world's  womb. 
Heed  them  not  thou  /  To  gods  they  are  no 
more 

Than  singing  birds  that  soar 
A  little  flight,  and  fall.     Tho'  for  a  space, 

Rear'd  in  a  lowly  place, 
Thou  hast  known,  as  mortals  know,  Earth's 
shade  and  shine, 

Another  lot  is  thine  ! — 
To  sit  among  the  gods,  on  heights  supreme, 

Beyond  Man's  guess  or  dream  ! ' 


III. 

HEAVENWARD 
JOURNEY. 

THE  GODDESSES. 

THERE  is  a  valley  by  the  northern  sea, 
O'ershadow'd  softly  by  eternal  hills 
And  canopied  by  the  ethereal  blue. 
Above  it  silently  for  ever  gleam 
Cold  peaks  of  ice  and  snow,  and  over  these 
The  wind  goes,  and  the  shadows  of  the 

wind; 

While  far  below,  the  hollows  of  the  vale 
Are  strewn  most  deep  with  heather  and  with 

thyme, 

And  weeping  willows  hang  their  silken  hair 
O'er  dusky  tarns  with  summer  lilies  sown  ; 
And    from    these  tarns  smooth   tracts  of 

greensward  slope 

Until  they  blend  with  silvern  sands  that  kiss 
The  foam-white  lips  of  the  still  sleeping  sea. 

Into  that  valley  by  a  secret  way, 
The  goddess  guided  her  immortal  son. 
Long  had  they  wander'd,  o'er  the  realms  of 

snow, 

Thro'  forests  vast,  down  desolate  ravines  ; 
And  still,  where'er  they  stept,  before  their 

feet 

A  wind  of  brightness  like  a  river  ran, 
And  rippled  softly  into  grass  and  flowers,— 


So  that  they  walked  on  rainbows  with  no 

rain, 
And  under  heaven  made  heaven  beneath 

their  feet. 
At  last  their  path  wound  upward,    while 

again 
They  trod  the  white  snows  of  the  topmost 

peaks, 

And  saw  beneath  them,  faint  and  far  away, 
The  secret  valley  :  purple  woods  of  pine, 
Crags  of  wild  umbrage  lit  by  flashing  falls, 
Smooth  emerald  lawns  ;   and  beyond  all, 

the  sea. 

And  lo  !  as  Balder  gazed,  that  valley  fair 
Grew  fairer— on  its  sleep  his  brightness  fell 
As  benediction — and  in  saffron  light 
It  swam  below  him  like  a  sunset  cloud. 
Down  from  the  lonely  heights  whereon  he 

stood 

A  snow-white  cataract,  like  a  naked  god 
With  plumes  of  silver  plunging  from  a  peak 
Into  a  purple  ocean,  headlong  flash'd  ; 
Then,  lost  among  the  dark  green  pine-tree 

tops, 

Sounded  unseen,  mingling  its  far-off  voice 
With  the  deep  murmur  of  the  wind-swept 

boughs. 

From  rocky  shelf  to  shelf,  with  golden  moss 
Enwrought  and  fringed  with  dwarf  willow 

trees, 

They  now  descended  in  the  torrent's  track, 
And  plunging  swiftly  downward  found  a  path 
Thro'  the  cool  darkness  of  the  shadowy 

woods  ; 

But  as  they  went  the  dusky  forest  way 
Grew  brighter,  ever  flash'd  to  softer  green 
The  green  leaves,  and  the  sward  to  sunnier 

hues, 

Till  from  the  leafy  umbrage  they  emerged, 
And  Balder  saw  a  vision  fairer  far 
Than  ever  poet  fabled  in  a  dream. 

Beside  those  waters,  on  those  emerald 

lawns 

Basking  in  one  eternal  summer  day, 
Lay  goddesses  divine  with  half-closed  eyes 
Gazing  out  seaward  on  the  crimson  isles 
Sown  in  the  soft  haze  of  the  summer  deep. 
And  there  they  wove  white  runes  to  win  the 

hearts 
Of  gods  and  men,  Avhile  o'er  their  happy 

heads 


THE  HEAVENWARD  JOURNEY. 


443 


Eternity  hung  steadfast  as  a  star. 

Some  stretch'd  upon  the  scented  greensward 

lay 

Moveless  and  wonderfully  robed  in  white  ; 
Some  sitting  silent  by  the  dusky  tarns 
Look'd  upward,  with  their  faces  dim  as 

dream  ; 

Some  musing  stood,  their  eyes  upon  the  sea, 
Their  thoughts  afar;  and  many  up  and 

down 
Along    the    quiet   greensward  paced  and 

mused. 

There  was  no  laughter  as  of  maiden  voices, 
No  sound  like  human  singing:  all  was 

still- 
Still  as  a  heartbeat,  silent  as  a  sleep. 

But  when  from  the  green  shadow  of  the 

woods 

Immortal  Balder  in  his  beauty  came, 
And  stood  irresolute  in  light  divine 
Gazing  upon  that  wonder  of  white  life, 
There  was  a  cry  of  startled  handmaidens 
Flocking  round  goddesses  most  marble  pale. 
All  to  their  feet  had  risen,  and  one  supreme 
Tall  shape  with  mailed  plates  upon  her 

breast, 

A  skirt  blood-red,  and  in  her  hand  a  spear, 
Stood,  while  pale  virgins  crouch'd  around 

her  feet, 

Confronting  Balder  with  black  eyes  of  fire. 
Lithe  was  she  as  a  serpent,  lithe  and  tall, 
Her  dark  skin  glimmering  bronzed  in  the 

sun, 
Her  eyebrows  black  drawn  down,  and  as 

the  beam 

Of  Balder's  beauty  struck  upon  her  frame, 
She  raised  her  spear,  and  seem'd  in  act  to 

strike ; 

But  Frea,  coming  stately  from  the  shade, 
Cried,   '  Hold ! '   and   Rota  (for  'twas  she 

whose  soul 

Delights  in  sowing  strife  'mong  weary  men) 
Paused  frowning,  and  the  virgins  at  her  feet 
Look'd  up  amazed. 

'  Whom  bring'st  thou  here  ? '  she  cried — 
'  What  shape  is  this,  with  pale  blue  human 

eyes, 

Yet  more  than  human  brightness,  venturing 
Where  never  foot  of  earthborn  thing  hath 

fared?' 
And  Frea  answer'd  gently,  '  Harm  him  not ! 


Nor  give  him  chilly  greeting,  sister  mine- 
Kin  is  he  to  immortal  gods  and  thee— 
'Tis  Balder  !  my  son  Balder ! '   At  the  word 
The  wind  of  that  old  prophecy  arose 
And  for  a  moment  like  a  fever'd  breath 
Faded  across  those    lawns    and    sleeping 

pools  ; 

And  blown  from  group  to  group  of  white- 
robed  forms, 

From  goddess  on  to  goddess,  echoed  low 
The  name  of  '  Balder,'  till  it  reached  the 

sands, 

And  on  the  far-off  foam  did  die  away 
In  low  sad  echoes  of  the  mighty  main. 

Then  Balder  with  a  heavenly  look  advancing 
Shone  on  the  place,  and  Rota  dropt  her 

spear, 

Still  darkening,  as  in  wonder  and  in  scorn 
She  gazed  upon  him,  crying,    '  Then  he 

lives ! 

Woe  to  the  race  of  Asa  since  he  lives  ! 
Why  comes  he  here  ?  '     And  Balder,  with 

a  voice 

As  sweet  as  fountains  falling,  made  reply, 
4 1  seek  my  sisters  and  my  kin  divine, 
And  thou  art  of  them  ! '  and  he  reach'd  out 

hands, 
Smiling  ! 

As  Rota  stood  irresolute, 
Half-angry,  half-disarm'd  by  his  sweet  eyes, 
Another  shape  most  fair  and  wonderful 
In  snow-white  robe  array  "d  thro"  which  her 

limbs 

Shone  with  a  rosy  and  celestial  ray, 
Cried  '  Balder ! '  in  a  voice  so  strange  and 

deep 

It  fell  upon  the  fountains  of  his  heart 
Like  sudden  light ;  and  two  serene  large 

eyes 
Shone  clear  as  clearest  stars    before  his 

sight. 
'Who  speaketh?'   Balder  cried,  and  the 

deep  voice 

Made  answer,  '  O  thou  foster-child  of  earth, 
With  eyes  like  tender  harebells,  and  with 

flesh 

Bright  as  the  body  of  a  mortal  man, 
Dost  thou  not  know  me  ? — I  am  Gefion, 
Whose  touch  could  make  thee  fruitful  as  a 

tree 
That  drops  ripe  fruit  at  every  kiss  o'  the 

wind.' 


444 


BALDER    THE  BEAUTIFUL. 


And  Balder  would  have  answer'd  eagerly, 
But  Frea  now  uplifting  a  white  hand 
With  queenly  gesture,  raised  her  voice  and 

said, 

'  O  sisters  !  goddesses  !  O  lilies  fair 
Blown  in  the  still  pools  of  eternity  ! 
Be  silent  for  a  space,  and  for  a  space 
Gaze  on  my  son  whom  to  your  bowers  I 

bring 

For  benediction  ;  now,  behold,  he  lives, 
Immortal  as  yourselves  and  beautiful 
As  any  star  that  in  the  heaven  of  heavens 
Hangs  luminous,  a  lamp  for  mortal  eyes. 
Him  in  the  secret  furrows  of  the  Earth 
I  cast  like  seed,  while  far  away  the  storm 
Flash'd  to  a  portent,  and  I  wove  my  rune  : 
That  neither  wind  nor  snow  nor  any  touch 
Of  god  or  goddess  might  disturb  his  growth 
From  season  unto  season,  while  he  rose 
Ev'n  as  a  flower  from  the  sweet-soiled  earth. 
There  came  unto  his  making  leaf  and  flower, 
The  soft  rain  and  the  shadow  of  the  rain, 
The  sundew  and  the  moondew,  and  the 

gleam 

Of  starlight,  and  the  glowlight  on  the  grass. 
To  secret  things  my  hands  committed  him, 
And  strangely  he  hath  thriven  since  that 

hour, 

Ev'n  as  a  leaf  is  fashion'd,  ev'n  as  the  hair 
Of  the  long  grass  is  woven,  wondrously  ! 
And  thus,  his  brow  bright  with  the  balms 

of  Earth, 
He  stands  complete,  his  Father's  child,  my 

son. 

O  look  upon  him  !  See  his  happy  eyes ! 
And  tell  me  that  ye  love  him,  and  in  turn 
Will  bless  him,  shielding  him  upon  your 

breasts 

If  ever  evil  hour  to  him  should  come. 
Oh,  that  sad  rune  we  fear'd  of  old  is  false  ! 
For  gentle  is  he  as  the  gentle  things 
Which  foster'd  him,  too  blest  and  beautiful 
To  be  a  terror  or  a  grief  to  gods.' 

She  ceased  ;  and  Gefion  thro'  her  loosen'd 

hair 

Smiled,  and  stern  Rota's  look  grew  tenderer. 
Then,  stretch'd  her  listless  length  upon  the 

grass, 

Her  dark  face  glowing  biightly  in  the  sun, 
Upon  one  elbow  leaning,  sun-tanned  Eir 
Raised  with  quick  wicked  laugh  her  root 

and  knife, 


Saying,  '  O  Frea,  had  I  found  him  there 
Fall'n  like  a  flower  in  the   dark  arms 

Earth, 
This  knife  had  made  an  end  ;  but  since 

stands 

Full-grown  and  fair,  immortal,  and  thy  sor 
I  bid  him  welcome  ! ' — As  she  spake, 

eyes 

Of  Balder  fell  upon  the  root  and  knife, 
And  lo,  the  knife  gleam' d  as  a  brand  of 

gold, 
While  the  black  root,  moist  with  the  dews 

of  earth, 
Trembled,  and  blossom'd  into  light  green 

leaves  ! 
Then  trembling,  Eir  arose,  and  stood  her 

height, 

While  gazing  full  into  her  troubled  eyes, 
Bright     Balder    moved    to    embrace    her 

silently. 

But  as  he  gently  came  there  interposed 
A  wonder  of  new  brightness, — such  a  shape, 
So  perfect  in  divine  white  loveliness, 
As  never  mortal  yet  beheld  and  lived. 
And  Balder  trembled,  and  his  bosom  heaved 
With  an  exceeding  sweetness  strange  and 

new, 
While  close  to  his  there   came  a  shining 

face, 

Still  as  a  sunbeam,  dimmer  than  a  dream. 
And  Freya,  for  'twas  she  whose  touch  is 

life 

To  happy  lovers  and  to  loveless  men 
Is  sickness  and  despair,    said,   breathing 

warm, 

While  on  her  alabaster  arms  love's  light 
Was  flushing  faint  as  thro'  a  rose's  leaves, 
'  Let  all  my  sisters  greet  thee  as  they  will, 
I  love  thee,  Balder  !  since  of  lovely  things 
Thou  art  the  brightest  and  the  loveliest ! ' 
And  lo  !  ere  he  was  ware  of  her  intent, 
Unto  his  cheek  she  presta  warm  red  mouth 
Kings  of  great  empires  would  haveswoon'd 

to  touch, 
And  poets  heavenly-dower'd  would  have 

died 
To  dream  of  kissing.'    Then  thro'  Balder 

ran 

A  new  miraculous  rapture  such  as  feels 
The  dark  Earth  when  the  scented  Summer 

leaps 
Full-blossom' d  as  a  bridegroom  to  her  arms ; 


THE  HEAVENWARD  JOURNEY. 


445 


Such  as  musk-roses  know  when  blown  apart 
By  sunbeams  in  mid-June  ;  and  Balder 's 

sense 
Swoon'd,  and  he  seetn'd  strewn  o'er  with 

fruit  and  flowers, 
And  on  his  lids  were  touches  like  warm 

rain, 

And  on  his  nostrils  and  his  parted  lips 
Delicious  balm  and  spicy  odours  fell, 
And  all  his  soul  was  like  a  young  maid's 

frame 
Bathed  in  the  warmth  of  love's  first  virgin 

dream. 

Then,  as  he  trembled  thro'  and  thro'  his 

form 

With  the  last  flush  of  that  celestial  fire, 
The  goddesses  around  him  flocking  came, 
All  giving  welcome.     Some  into  his  eyes 
Gazed  in  such  awe  as  pallid  virgins  feel 
For  some  mysterious  splendour  masculine 
They  seek  yet  fear  and  shrink  from  as  they 

touch. 

For  Balder's  loveliness  in  that  bright  place 
Was  as  the  soft  sheen  of  the  summer  moon 
Arising  silvern  in  the  cloudless  west 
Above  the  sunset  seas  of  orange  gold  ; 
And  there  was  trouble  in  his  human  eyes 
Most  melancholy  sweet, — trouble  like  tears, 
Of  starlight,  or  the  tremor  of  the  dew. 

II. 
THE  FRUIT  OF  LIFE. 

They  led  him  to  a  bank  with  moss  inlaid, 
Close  to  the  tranquil  mirror  of  the  sea, 
And  thither  came  pale  ocean  handmaidens 
Singing  to  lutes  of  amber  and  of  pearl, 
While  '  Love  him,  love  him,"  cried  the  god- 
desses, 

'  O  love  him,  love  him,  he  is  beautiful ! ' 
But  Frea  lifted  up  her  hand,  and  cried, 
'  Love  is  not  all — swear  against  all  things  ill 
To  watch  him  and  protect  him  ; ' — and  they 

cried, 
1  We  swear  !   we  swear  ! '    Then  bending 

over  him 

With  bright  black  eyeballs  burning  into  his, 
Pale  Rota  touched  his   forehead  with  her 

spear, 
Crying  '  Live  on  !     No  touch  of  time  shall 

cause 
One  wrinkle  on  thy  smooth  unruffled  brow! ' 


And   Eir,  low-laughing,  held  with  tender 

teeth, 

Not  bruising  the  fair  skin,  his  naked  arm, 
And  murmur'd,  '  Strength  and  subtle  force 

be  thine, 
Drunk  from   my  breath  into   thy  deepest 

veins. ' 
And  Gefion,  with  her  large,  sad,  heavenly 

eyes 

Upgazing  in  his  face,  and  one  white  hand 
Laid  softly  on  his  side,  cried,  '  As  a  tree 
Be  fruitful !     Wheresoe'er  thou  wanderest, 
Fruitage    go  with    thee    and  a  thousand 

flowers ! ' 

But  Freya  kiss'd  him  calmly  on  the  brow, 
And  whisper'd  to  him  lower  than  the  rest, 
1 0  Balder  !  my  soul's  gift  is  best  of  all — 
They  bring  thee  life,  but  I  have  given  thee 

love.' 

And  Balder  sank  into  a  dream.  Much  joy 
Made  his  sense  drowsy,  and  with  happy 

eyes 

He  saw  that  mist  of  light  and  loveliness 
Enclose  him,  while  he  seem'd  as  one  who 

swims 

Among  the  shallows  of  an  orient  sea. 
A  voice  like  music  woke  him,  and  he  saw 
Standing  before  him  in  light  azure  robes 
A  shape  that  'midst  those  others  seem'd  as 

dim 

And  unsubstantial  as  a  summer  shade. 
Tall  was  she,  and  her  wondrous  sheen  of 

hair 
Rain'd  downward  like  the  silvern  willow's 

leaves, 

And  on  her  mystic  raiment  blue  as  heaven 
There  glimmer'd  dewy  drops  like  shining 

stars. 

Pale  was  she,  with  the  pallor  of  wan  waters 
That  wash  for  evermore  the  cold  white  feet 
Of  spectral  polar  moons  ;  and  when  she 

spake, 

'Twas  low  as  sea-wash  on  the  starlit  sands 
And  strange  and  far-away  as  sounds  in 

sleep. 
'  Balder  ! '  she  sigh'd  ;  and  like  a  man  who 

hears, 

Upstarting  on  his  bed,  some  wondrous  cry, 
Balder  upstarted  wildly  listening. 
'  Balder  !  O  brother  Balder,  whose  fair  face, 
Ere  yet  I  gazed  upon  it  shining  here, 
I  knew  thro'  dark  eternities  of  dream, 


446 


BALDER    THE  BEAUTIFUL. 


See  what  /  give  thee  J  see  what  gentle  gift 
Thy  sister  Ydun  brings  thee  ;  more  divine 
Than  life's  sweet  breath,  or  the  fair  flame 
of  love." 

So  saying,  from  her  veiled  breast  she  drew 
Mystical  apples  like  to  diamond  seeds, 
So  small  to  seeming  that  a  score  might  lie 
In  the  pink  hollow  of  an  infant's  hand. 
Each  shone  complete  and  pure  as  mother- 

o'-pearl 
Touch'd  with  prismatic  gleams  of  wondrous 

light, 

And  unto  each  on  the  scarce  visible  stem 
There  clung  two  perfect  little  leaves  of  gold. 
This  secret  fruit  the  gods  and  goddesses 
For  ever  feed  on,  evermore  renewed  ; 
And  in  a  garden  desolate  and  dim 
Wash'd  by  the  wild  green  sea  of  human 

graves, 

Pale  Ydun  plucks  it,  and  none  other  may. 
'  Eat ! '  Ydun  murmur'd — '  Balder,  eat  and 

live — 
This  fruit  shall  slay  the  lingering  taint  of 

Earth 
Within  thee,  and  preserve  thee  all  divine.' 

Then    Balder  reaching  out  his  open'd 

hand 

Did  take  the  fruit,  and  eating  of  the  same, 
Which  melted  on  his  tongue  like  flakes  of 

snow, 
He  felt  thro*  all  his  limbs  the  rapturous 

thrill 

Of  some  supreme  and  unfamiliar  life. 
So  leaving  all  those  luminous  shapes  behind, 
He  took  the  hand  of  Ydun,  kissing  her 
As  moonlight  kisses  dew  ;  and  side  by  side 
They   wended    down    across    the   yellow 

sands, — 
And  many  hours  they  wander'd  whispering 

low 
Close  to  the  bright  edge  of  that  sleeping  Sea. 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  GODS. 

So  Balder  knew  what  mystical  delights, 
What  slumberous  idleness  and  peace  su- 
preme 

Belong  to  the  immortal  goddesses  ; 
And  not  a  goddess  in  those  golden  walks 
But  loved  the  human  light  in  Balder's  face. 


At  last  there  came  a  day  (if  day  might  cor 
Where  suns  sank  never  in  the  crystal  sea) 
When  mighty  Frea  said,  •  The  time  is  nij 
To  say  farewell— much  yet  remains  to  do, 
A  weary  path  to  follow,  ere  thy  seat 
Among  immortal  creatures  is  secure.' 
And  Balder  smiled,  for  of  those  shining 

groves 

His  soul  was  weary  tho'  he  knew  it  not ; — 
Ev'n  Freya's  kiss  was  chiller  on  his  cheek, 
And  Gefion's  face  seem'd  less  serenely  fair, 
And  only  Ydun  still  had  power  to  soothe 
His  spirit  with  her  weirdly-woven  runes. 
And  Balder  said,  '  O  Mother,  sweet  it  is 
To  dwell  among  the  immortals  in  these 

bowers, 

But  to  fare  on  is  better,  and  I  seem 
Ev'n  as  a  cloud  whose  feet  may  never  rest, 
But  still  must  wander,  and  it  knows  not 

whither.' 

And  so  from  that  fair  valley  silently 

They  pass'd,  and  up  the  mountain  sides, 

and  down 
Thro'  other  prospects  less  divinely  fair. 

And  from  the  valley  they  had  left  the  face 
Of  Balder  slowly  faded  like  a  star, 
Forgotten,  dwindled  from  the  drowsy  dream 
Of  those  great  slumberous-lidded  goddesses. 
From  that  bright  realm's  serene  eternity 
All  forms  that  are  not  present  fade  away 
Like  shadows  stealing  o'er  a  summer  stream. 
Yea  even  Freya  did  forget  his  eyes, 
And  gazed  straight  out  at  the  unchanging 

sea 

Smiling  all  calm  as  if  he  had  not  been  ; 
And  only  Ydun  did  remember  him, 
Writing  his  name  upon  the  yellow  sands 
And  weaving  it  all  round  with  subtle  runes. 

.  .  .  But  far  away  beyond  those  secret 

realms, 
Still  northward,   thro*   the    wastes    where 

nothing  lives, 

The  goddess  guided  Balder,  till  at  last 
Into  their  faces  flash'd  the  polar  fires  ; 
So  that  the  streams  were  purpled  and  the 

heights 

Took  deeper  crimson  gleams,  and  overhead 
The  stars  were  quench'd  in  amethyst  and 

gold. 

Then  Frea  pointed  with  her  hand,  and  cried, 
'  Behold  the  CITY  OF  THE  GODS  ! ' 


THE  HEAVENWARD  JOURNEV. 


447 


They  stood 

Upon  the  verge  of  a  vast  Sea  of  Ice, 
So  rough,  so  sown  with  berg  and  drift,  it 

seem'd 

An  ocean  frozen  in  the  midst  of  storm 
Before  the  surge  could  break,  the  waves 

could  fall. 
Still  was  it  'neath  the  gleaming  lights  of 

heaven, 

Silent  and  awful,  sleeping  with  no  stir, 
In  one  vast  gleam  of  crimson  bright  as  blood 
Cast  on  it  from  afar.     For  lo  !  beyond, 
Rose  Asgard,  the  great  City  of  the  Gods, 
For  ever  burnt  to  ashes  night  by  night 
And  dawn  by  dawn  for  evermore  renew'd. 
And  mortals  when  they  see  from  out  their 

caves 

The  City  crumbling  with  a  thousand  fires 
Cry,   '  Lo,  the  Sunset ! ' — and  when  ever- 
more 

They  mark  it  springing  up  miraculous 
From  its  own  ashes  strewn  beside  the  sea, 
Cry,  '  Lo,  the  Sunrise  ! '    There,  within  its 

walls 
The  great  gods  strive  in  thickening  fumes 

of  fight, 

Gathering  together  bloody  ghosts  of  men  ; 
And  when  the  great  towers  tremble  and  the 

spires 

Shoot  earthward  and  the  fiery  ashes  smoke, 
The  gods  exult  a  little  space,  and  wave 
Their  brands  for  all  the  vales  of  earth  to 

see  ; 

But  when  the  ashes  blacken,  and  the  moon 
Shines  on  the  City's  embers,  silently 
They  creep  into    their  starry    tents    and 

sleep, — 

Till  like  a  rose  unfolding  leaf  by  leaf, 
The  immortal  City  rises  ! 

And  behold  ! 

There,  far  across  the  silent  frozen  Deep, 
They    saw    the  glimmer  of   the  topmost 

towers, 

Fading  and  changing  in  the  lurid  light 
Of  their  own  terrible  consuming  flame  ; 
And  shadows  to  and  fro  amid  the  gleam 
Pass'd,  smiting  shadows,  and  from  out  the 

heavens 
There  came  a  far-off  sound  as  of  a  sea. 

Still  onward,  walking  now  with  wearier  feet 
The  ice  of  that  great  Ocean,  they  pursued 


Their  solitary  way,  and  as  they  went. 
With    shadows    ever    lengthening    to  the 

south, 

The  City  sank  consuming,  till  its  towers 
Just  touch'd  with  gold   the    red  horizon 

fringe  ; 

And  in  the  darkening  ether  over  it 
A  star  sprang  like  a  spirit  clad  in  mail, 
And  sat  without  a  sound  upon  its  throne, 
Down-gazing  ;  and  the  empty  heavens  and 

air 

Were  troubled  still  with  melancholy  light, 
Wherein  the  opening  lamps  of  night  were 

swung 
Pure  golden,  twinkling  without  beams. 

At  last, 

When  of  that  City  little  more  remain'd 
Than  splendour  from  its  ashes  fading  slow, 
They  reach'd  one  mighty  gateway  crumb- 
ling down 

Ev'n  as  a  cloud  that  clings  upon  a  crag, 
And  passing  in  they  found  the  golden  streets 
All  chill  and  desolate  and  strewn  with  shade  ; 
For  no  quick  foot  of  any  living  thing, 
Mortal  or  god,  trod  there  ;  but  all  around 
Grew  silence,  and  the  luminous  eyes  of  stars. 

Then    Frea    said,     '  Call    now    upon    the 
Father ! ' 

And  Balder,  standing  bright  and  beautiful 
Like  to  a  marble  column  wrought  with  gold, 
All  kindled  with  the  shadows  of  the  fire, 
Rose  on  the  ashes  of  the  City  and  cried, 
'  Father ! '  when  glory  grew  about  his  brow, 
And  on  his  breast  and  arms  the  light  was 

shed, 

Staining  their  alabaster.     So  he  stood, 
Tall-statured,  luminous,  supremely  fair, 
Watch'd  by  the  closing  eyes  of  all  the  world. 
And  suddenly,  in  answer  to  his  cry. 
A  fierce  aurora  of  pale  faces  flash'd 
Out  of  the  night  of  the  extremest  north. 

And  Frea  cried  aloud,  '  Almighty  gods  ! 
Behold  your   brother   Balder !    Father  in 

Heaven, 
Behold  thy  Son  ! ' 

From  out  the  north  there  came 
A  murmur,  and  across  the  skies  there  swept 
A  trouble  as  of  wildly  waving  hands. 

Then  Frea  cried  to  Balder,  '  Call  again  ! ' 


44? 


BA* 


I 'A  UTIFUL. 


And  Balder,  shining  still  most  beautiful, 
And  stretching  out  his  arms  to  the  black 

north, 
Cried  •  Father  ! ' 

Suddenly  the  stars  were  quench'd, 
And  heavy  as  a  curtain  fell  the  night. 

IV. 
THE  VOICE  OF  THE  FATHER. 

Then  Frea  said,  '  O  Balder,  best  beloved, 
My  heart  fails,  and  my  weary  spirit  swoons. 
Fare  on  alone,  and  enter  unafraid 
The  presence  of  the  Father.' 

As  she  spake, 

Her  face  he  saw  not,  but  he  felt  her  hands 
Clinging  around  him,  while  his  own  fair 

face, 

Amid  that  sudden  darkness,  shone  serene, 
Fearless  and  gentle,  and  his  beauteous  limbs 
Gleam'd  with  the  lustre  of  celestial  life. 
'  Mother,"  he  answer'd,  '  why  is  all  so  dark  ? 
And  where  is  he  thou  namest,  that  mine 

eyes 
May  look  upon  him  ? ' 

From  the  blacken'd  ground 
Her  voice  sobbed  answer,  saying,   '  Even 

now 

His  shadow  is  upon  us.     Pass  tlwu  on, 
Glide  silent  thro'   the  phantom  groves  of 

gods, 

And  stand  in  thine  immortal  loveliness, 
With  eyes  divine  on  his,  before  the  throne. 
Here  will   I  linger,  praying  close  to  the 

earth, 
Till  thou  returnest.' 

Shining  like  a  star, 

Spake  Balder,  '  All  is  dim,  and  I  discern 
No  pathway  and  no  bourne  ; '    but  with 

clear  voice 

Uplifted  like  a  swan's  that  flies  thro'  storm, 
He  call'd,   'Where  art  thou,   Father?    It 

is  I, 
Balder  thy  Son  ! ' 

As  when  the  great  seas  roar 
Suck'd  in  thro'  weedy  rocks  and  under- 

caves 

With  surging  sorrow  drearily  prolong'd 
In  hoarse  and  billowy  breaths  of  solemn 

sound, 
Ev'n  so  that  darkness  murmur'd  and  a  voice 


Came  thund'rous   out  of  heaven  with  no 

words. 
And  Frea  cried,  '  Thouhearest !     Hark,  he 

calls- 
Follow  that  murmur  out  into  the  dark, 
And  it  shall  guide  thee  to  the  Father's  feet.' 

Silently,  softly  smiling,  with  no  fear, 
Balder  pass'd  on  ;  and  as  one  gropes  his  way 
Oceanward  guided  by  the  ocean's  voice, 
He  faded  slowly  forth  into  the  night. 

v. 
BALDER'S  RETURN. 

There  close  to  the  earth  she  waited,  crouch- 
ing down 

'Mid  the  cold  ashes  of  the  sunken  City, 
While  closing  round  her  like  to  prison  walls 
The  deep  impenetrable  darkness  grew. 
And  soon  it  shed  a  heavy,  weary  rain, 
That  clung  upon  her,  chilling  soul  and  sense, 
Cold  as  a  corpse's  lips  ;  and  all  the  while, 
As  a  bird  listens  from  its  folded  wings, 
She  listen' d ! 

But  the  only  sound  she  heard 
Was  the  low  murmur  of  that  weary  rain, 
Which  spread  wet  fingers  o'er  the  shudder- 
ing heavens, 

And  drearily  drew  down  the  rainy  lids 
Over  the  gentle  eyes  of  all  the  stars. 

Silent  she  lay  and  hearken'd,  till  her  soul 
Had  lost  all  count  of  time  and  faded  back 
Into  its  own  sad,  dumb  eternity.  .  .  . 

At  last  she  stirred  like  one  that  wakes  from 

sleep. 
The  rain  had  ceased,  the  darkness  to  the 

north 

Had  lifted,  and  her  eyes  beheld  afar, 
Beneath  the  glimmer  of  the  northern  night, 
The  brightness  of  the  god's  returning  feet. 

Slowly,   like  one  whose  heart  is    heavy ; 

slowly, 

Like  one  that  muses  sadly  as  he  moves  ; 
Slowly,  with  darkness  brooding  at  his  back, 
Came  Balder,  and  his  coming  far  away 
Was  ev'n  as  moonlight  when  the  moon  is 

sad 
On  misty  nights  of  March  ;  and  when  again 


THE  HEAVENWARD  JOURNEY. 


449 


He  pass'd  across  the  ashes  of  the  City, 
And  she  who  bare  him  could  behold  his  face, 
Twas  spectral  white,  and  in  his  heavenly 

eyes 

There  dwelt  a  shadowy  pain.    Ev'n  as  a  man 
Who  passing  thro'  the  barrows  of  the  slain 
Hath  seen  the  corpses  sit  at  dead  of  night 
Gazing  in   silence  from  their  own  green 

graves  ; 

Or  as  a  maiden  who  hath  seen  a  wraith 
And  knoweth  that  her  shroud    is    being 

woven, 

Came  Balder  out  of  heaven  :  still  divine, 
And  beautiful,  but  ah  !  how  sorrowful ; 
Still  bright,  but  with  a  light  as  sadly  fair, 
Compared  to  that  first  splendour  of  the 

dawn, 

As  moonshine  is  to  sunshine  ;  on  his  brow 
The  shade  of  some  new  sorrow,  in  his  eyes 
The  birth  of  some  new  pity  ;  as  a  god, 
Yet  ghost-like,  with  deep  glamour  in  his 

gaze, 
Slowly,    with   faltering    footsteps,    Balder 


Then  Frea  rose  in  silence,  very  pale, 
For  on  her  soul  beholding  Balder 's  face 
Some  desolate  anticipation  fell, 
And  turn'd  her  eyes  on  his,  stretching  her 

hands 
To  hold  him  and  to  embrace  him,  keen  to 

hear 
His  message  ;  but  he  spake  not  when  her 

arms 

Were  wound  about  him  and  upon  his  brow 
Her  soft  kiss  fell  ;    vacant  his  sad  eyes 

seem'd, 

As  if  they  gazed  on  something  far  away. 
Then  Frea  sobbed  in  agony  of  heart, 
'Son,  hast  thou  seen  thy  brethren?'  and 

again, 
'  Son,  hast  thou  seen  thy  Father  ? '     Yet  a 

space 
His  lips  were  silent,    and  his  eyes   were 

blank, 

But  when  again  and  yet  again  her  tongue 
Had  framed  the  same  fond  question,  Balder 

said, 

In  a  low  voice  and  a  weary,  '  I  have  seen 
My  brethren  and  my  Father  ! '   Like  a  man 
Smit  thro'  and  thro'  with  sudden  sense  of 

cold, 
He  shiver'd. 


Then  the  goddess,  mad  to  see 
The  light  of  agony  on  that  well-loved  face, 
Clung  to  him  wailing,  '  Balder  !  my  Son 

Balder  ! 

Why  is  thy  look  so  sick,  thy  soul  so  weary  ? 
What  hast  thou  done  and  seen  ?  what  sight 

of  heaven 
Hath  made  theesad?' — and  Balder answer'd 

low, 
'  O    Mother !     I    have    dream'd    another 

dream — 
I  have  seen  my  brethren  in  a  dream— have 

seen 

My  brethren  and  my  Father  ;  and  it  seems 
From  that  strange  trance  I  have  not  waken'd 

yet, 

But  that  I  still  am  darkling  in  my  dream, 
The  breath  of  gods  about  me,  and  the  eyes 
Of  gods   upon   me  !      Patience — question 

not — 

The  light  is  coming,  and  my  soul  is  waking — 
My  dream  grows  clear,  and  I  shall  soon 

remember 
All  that  mine  eyes  have  seen,  mine  ears 

have  heard." 

Then  on  that  City's  ashes  side  by  side 
Sat  son  and  mother,  two  colossal  shapes, 
Silent,  in  shadow  ;  but  the  eyes  of  heaven 
Were  opening  above,  and  to  the  south 
They  saw  the  white  seas  flash  with  glittering 

bergs 

In  fitful  glimmers  to  the  windy  night. 
And  when  a  little  space  had  pass'd  away 
The  god  spake  softly,  saying,  '  All  is  clear, 
My  sorrow  and  my  dream ;  and  Mother, 

now 
I  know  those  things  which  seem'd  so  sad 

and  dark. 

Ah  !  woe  is  me  that  I  was  ever  born 
To  be  a  terror  and  a  grief  to  gods  ! ' 

Then  Frea  cried,  '  O  Balder,  unto  whom 
Can  all  the  promise  of  thy  beauty  bring 
Terror  or  grief?    Nay,    'twas  with  looks 

serene 

To  win  the  heart  of  heaven,  that  its  wrath 
Might  never  turn  against  thee,  and  to  mock 
With  glory  of  thy  human  gentleness 
The  prophecy  of  that  ancestral  rune, 
I  bade  thee  go  up  beauteous  and  alone 
Before  the  darkness  of  the  Father's  face. 
Yet  thou  returnesi  barren  of  such  joy 
GG 


450 


BALDER    THE  BEAUTIFUL. 


As  thou  a  god  shouldst  snatch  from  gods 

thy  kin, 

First  in  thy  plenitude  beholding  them  ; 
And  on  thy  brow  is  sadness,  not  such  peace 
As  comes  from  consecration  of  a  kiss 
Given  by  a  Father  to  a  son  beloved 
In  whom  he  is  well  pleased ! ' 

Then  once  again 

Like  a  man  smitten  to  the  bone  with  cold, 
Bright  Balder  shiver'd,  and  his  beautiful  face 
Grew  gray  as  any  mortal's  fix'd  in  death  ; 
And  suddenly  he  cried,  '  O  come  away  1 
Come  back  to  those  green  woods  where  I 

was  born. 
The  ways  of  heaven  are  dreary,  and  the 

winds 

Of  heaven  blow  chilly,  and  I  fain  would  find 
A  refuge  and  a  home  ! ' 

But  Frea  moan'd, 
Turning  her  fair  face  northward  in  quick 

wrath, 

'Ay  me  thy  dream — I  read  it,  from  mine  own 
Most  bitterly  awaking.     Woe  to  them  ! 
Woe  to  the  Father  and  the  gods  thy  kin  ! 
Out  of  thy  mansion  have  they  cast  thee  forth, 
Denying  thee  thy  birthright  and  thy  seat 
Up  yonder  at  thy  heavenly  Father's  side  ! ' 
But  Balder,  in  a  feeble  voice  and  low, 
Said,    '  They    denied    me    nought,    those 

Shapes  I  saw 

Strangely  as  in  a  sleep ;  nay,  but  meseem'd 
They  pointed  at  me  with  their  spectral  hands 
And  waved  me  back,  some  with  their  rai- 
ment hems 

Hiding  their  faces  ;  in  their  eyes  I  saw 
Not  love  but  protestation  absolute  ; 
And  when  I  rose  and  named  my  Father's 

name, 

It  seem'd  creation  rock'd  beneath  my  feet 
And  all  the  cloudy  void  above  my  head 
Trembled  ;  and  when  I  named  my  name,  a 

voice 
Shriek'd  ' '  Balder  ! "  and  the  naked  vaults  of 

heaven 

Prolong'd  in  d&solation  and  despair 
The  echoes  of  the  word  till  it  became 
As  thunder  I    Then  meseem'd  I  saw  a  hand, 
Gripping  the  fiery  lightning  suddenly, 
Strike  at  my  head  as  if  to  smite  me  down  ; 
But  tho'  my  frame  was  wrapt  about  with  fire, 
I  stood  unscathed  ;  and  as  I  paused  I  saw, 


Confused  as  stormy  shadows  in  the  sea, 
Thrones    gleaming,    faces    fading, 

shapes 

Coming  and  going  darkly  ;  and  each  tir 
I  call'd  upon  my  Father,  that  great  hand 
Flash'd  down  the  fierce  darts  of  the  crim 

levin, 

And  from  that  darkness  which  I  knew  was  he 
A  voice  came,  and  a  cry  that  seem'd  a  curse, 
Until  my  soul  was  sicken'd  and  afraid. 
Then,  for  my  heart  was  heavy,  yearning  still 
To  look  upon  him  and  to  feel  at  last 
The  welcome  of  his  consecrating  kiss, 
I  fell  upon  my  knees,  folded  my  hands 
Together,   and  I  blest    him  ; — when   me- 

thought 
The  voice  wail'd,  and  the  cry  that  seem'd  a 

curse 
Re-echoed.      Then  came  blackness    more 

intense ; 
And  for  a  space  my  sense  and  sight  seem'd 

lost, 

And  when  I  woke  I  stood  beside  thee  here, 
Holding  thy  hand  and  looking  in  thine 

eyes.' 

Then  Frea  wail'd,  '  'Tis  o'er  !  my  hope  is 

o'er! 
Thy  Father  loves  thee  not,  but  casts  thee 

forth — 
Where  wilt  thou  find  a  place  to  rest  thy 

feet?' 
But  Balder  answer'd,   'Where  the  cushat 

builds 
Her  nest  amid  green  leaves,   and  where 

wild  roses 

Hang  lamps  to  light  the  dewy  feet  of  dawn, 
And  where  the  starlight  and  the  moonlight 

slumber, 

Ev'n  there,  upon  the  balmy  lap  of  Earth, 
Shall    I    not    sleep    again?     O    Mother, 

Mother  ! 

Pray  to  my  Father  that  his  soul  may  learn 
To  love  me  in  due  season,  while  again 
Earthward  we  fare  ;  and  Mother,  bless  thou 

me, 

Me  whom  my  heavenly  Father  blesseth  not, 
With  ministering  hands  before  we  go  ! ' 

Then  Frea    cried,    blessing    and    kissing 

Balder, 
'Go  thou, — the  green  Earth  loves  thee,  and 

thy  face 


B ALDER'S  RETURN  TO  EARTH. 


451 


Is  as  a  lamp  to  all  the  gentle  things 
Which  mingled  in  thy  making — Go  thou 

down, 

But  I  will  journey  upward  till  I  find 
The  footstool  of  the  Father.    Night  and  day 
With  prayers,  with  intercession  of  deep  tears, 
With  ministering  murmurs,  I  will  plead, 
Low-lying  like  a  cloud  around  his  feet, 
Thy  cause,  and  the  green   Earth's  which 

foster' d  thee  : 

That  in  a  later  season  love  may  come 
In  answer,  and  the  Father  fear  no  more 
To  seat  thee  'mong  Immortals  at  his  side. 
Go  down,  my  child,  my  sunbeam,  my  best- 
born, 

My  Balder,  who  art  still  deem'd  beautiful 
Save  only  in  the  heavenly  Father's  sight ! 
And  when  all  things  have  blest  thee  ;  when 

all  forms 
Have  gladden'd  in  thy  glory ;   when  all 

voices, 

The  mountains  and  the  rivers  and  the  seas, 
The  white  clouds  and  the  stars  upon  their 

thrones, 
Have  known  thy  face  and  syllabled  thy 

name  ; 

Come  back  again  under  the  arch  of  heaven, 
Not  as  a  suppliant  but  a  conqueror, 
And  take  thy  throne  ! ' 

The  darkness  far  away 
Groan' d :    and  the  great  void  answer' d  ; 

overhead 
Cluster' d  the  countless  spheres  of  night, 

like  eyes 

Downgazing  ;  but  beneath  the  goddess'  feet 
Shot  up  dim  gleams  of  dawn. 

Then  bright  as  day 
Grew  Balder,  while  his  face,  composed  to 

peace, 
Turn'd  earthward  ;  and  he   stretch'd  out 

eager  arms 

To  that  beloved  land  where  he  was  born. 
1  Farewell ! '  he  said,  and  softly  kiss'd  the 

mother ; 

Then,  while  the  goddess  glided  like  a  cloud 
Up  heavenward,  down  to  the  dim  Earth  he 

pass'd 
Slowly,  with  luminous  feet. 

.  .  .  And  when  he  came 
To  that  cold  realm  which  belts  the  Frozen 
Sea, 


Behind  his  back  the  trumpets  of  the  light 
Were  faintly  blown ;  a  sudden  sheen  was 

thrown 

Behind  him  and  around  him,  wondrously ; 
Bright  shone  the  lonely  waste  of  plain  and 

berg; 

And  reaching  that  great  cape  of  porphyry 
Which  points  with  shadowy  finger  at  the 

pole, 
He  turn'd  his  shining  face  once  more,  and 

watch'd  ; 

While  far  away  in  the  remotest  north 
Bright  Asgard,  mystic  City  of  the  Gods, 
Was  rising  from  its  ashes  till  its  spires 
Burnt  golden  in  the  rose-red  arch  of  heaven. 


IV. 

B  ALDER'S  RETURN  TO 
EARTH. 


'  BALDER  is  HERE.' 

O  WHO  cometh  sweetly 

With  singing  of  showers? — 
The  wild  wind  runs  fleetly 
Before  his  soft  tread, 
The  sward  stirs  asunder 

To  radiance  of  flowers, 
While  o'er  him  and  under 

A  glory  is  spread — 
A  white  cloud  above  him 

Moves  on  thro'  the  blue, 
And  all  things  that  love  him 

Are  dim  with  its  dew : 
The  lark  is  upspringing, 

The  merle  whistles  clear, 
There  is  sunlight  and  singing, 

For  Balder  is  here  ! 

He  walks  on  the  mountains, 

He  treads  on  the  snows ; 
He  loosens  the  fountains 

And  quickens  the  wells  ; 
He  is  filling  the  chalice 

Of  lily  and  rose, 
He  is  down  in  the  valleys 

And  deep  in  the  dells — 
He  smiles,  and  buds  spring  to  him. 

The  bright  and  the  dark  ; 
He  speaks,  and  birds  sing  to  him, 
The  finch  and  the  lark, — 

GG2 


452 


BALDER    THE  BEAUTIFUL. 


He  is  down  by  the  river, 

He  is  up  by  the  mere, 
Woods  gladden,  leaves  quiver, 

For  Balder  is  here. 

There  is  some  divine  trouble 

On  earth  and  in  air — 
Trees  tremble,  brooks  bubble, 

Ants  loosen  the  sod  ; 
Warm  footfalls  awaken 

Whatever  is  fair  ; 
Sweet  rain-dews  are  shaken 
To  quicken  each  clod. 
The  wild  rainbows  o'er  him 

Are  melted  and  fade, 
The  grass  runs  before  him 

Thro'  meadow  and  glade  ; 
Green  branches  close  round  him, 

The  leaves  whisper  near — 
'  He  is  ours — we  have  found  him — 

Bright  Balder  is  here ! ' 

The  forest  glows  golden 

Where'er  he  is  seen, 
New  flowers  are  unfolden, 

New  voices  arise ; 
Flames  flash  at  his  passing 

From  boughs  that  grow  green, 
Dark  runlets  gleam,  glassing 

The  stars  of  his  eyes. 
The  Earth  wears  her  brightest 

Wherever  he  goes, 
The  hawthorn  its  whitest, 

Its  reddest  the  rose  ; 
The  days  now  are  sunny, 

The  white  storks  appear, 
And  the  bee  gathers  honey, 

For  Balder  is  here. 

He  is  here  on  the  heather, 

And  here  by  the  brook, 
And  here  where  together 

The  lilac  boughs  cling  ; 
He  is  coming  and  going 

With  love  in  his  look, 
His  white  hand  is  sowing 

Warm  seeds,  and  they  spring  ! 
He  has  touch1  d  with  new  silver 

The  lips  of  the  stream, 
And  the  eyes  of  the  culver 

Are  bright  from  his  beam, 
He  has  lit  the  great  lilies 

Like  lamps  on  the  mere ; 


All  happy  and  still  is, 
For  Balder  is  here. 

Still  southward  with  sunlight 

He  wanders  away— 
The  true  light,  the  one  light, 

The  new  light,  is  he  ! 
With  music  and  singing 

The  mountains  are  gay, 
And  the  peace  he  is  bringing 

Spreads  over  the  sea. 
All  night,  while  stars  twinkling 

Gleam  down  on  the  glade, 
His  white  hands  are  sprinkling 

With  harebells  the  shade  ; 
And  when  day  hath  broken, 

All  things  that  dwell  near 
Will  know,  by  that  token, 

That  Balder  is  here. 

In  the  dark  deep  dominions 

Of  pine  and  of  fir, 
Where  the  dove  with  soft  pinions 

Sits  still  on  her  nest, 
He  sees  her,  and  by  her 

The  young  doves  astir, 
And  smiling  sits  nigh  her, 

His  hand  on  her  breast ; 
The  father-dove  lingers 

With  love  in  its  eyes, 
Alights  on  his  fingers, 

And  utters  soft  cries, 
And  the  sweet  colours  seven 

Of  the  rainbow  appear 
On  its  neck,  as  in  heaven, 

Now  Balder  is  here. 

He  sits  by  a  fountain 

Far  up  near  the  snow, 
And  high  on  the  mountain 

The  wild  reindeer  stand  ; 
On  crimson  moss  near  to  him 

They  feed  walking  slow, 
Or  come  with  no  fear  to  him, 

And  eat  from  his  hand. 
He  sees  the  ice  turning 

To  columns  of  gold. 
He  sees  the  clouds  burning 

On  crags  that  were  cold  ; 
The  great  snows  are  drifting 

To  cataracts  clear, 
All  shining  and  shifting, 

For  Balder  is  here. 


BALD  EPS  RETURN  TO  EARTH. 


453 


O  who  sittelh  singing, 

Where  sunset  is  red, 
A.nd  wild  ducks  are  winging 
Against  the  dark  gleam  ? 
It  is  he,  it  is  Balder, 

He  hangeth  his  head 
Where  willow  and  alder 

Droop  over  the  stream  ; 
And  the  purple  moths  find  him 

And  hover  around, 
And  from  marshes  behind  him 

He  hears  a  low  sound  : 
The  frogs  croak  their  greeting 

From  swamp  and  from  mere, 
And  their  faint  hearts  are  beating, 

For  Balder  is  here. 

The  round  moon  is  peeping 

Above  the  low  hill ; 
Her  white  light,  upcreeping 
Against  the  sun's  glow, 
On  the  black  shallow  river 

Falls  silvern  and  chill, 
Where  bulrushes  quiver 
And  wan  lilies  grow. 
The  black  bats  are  flitting, 

Owls  pass  on  soft  wings, 
Yet  silently  sitting 

He  lingers  and  sings — 
He  sings  of  the  Maytime, 

Its  sunlight  and  cheer, 
And  the  night  like  the  daytime 

Knows  Balder  is  here. 

He  is  here  with  the  moonlight, 

With  night  as  with  day, 
The  true  light,  the  one  light, 

The  new  light,  is  he  ; 
The  moon-bows  above  him 

Are  melted  away, 
And  the  things  of  night  love  him, 

And  hearken  and  see. 
He  sits  and  he  ponders, 

He  walks  and  he  broods, 
Or  singing  he  wanders 

'Neath  star-frosted  woods  ; 
And  the  spheres  from  afar,  light 

His  face  shining  clear  : 
Yea,  the  moonlight  and  starlight 

Feel  Balder  is  here. 

He  is  here,  he  is  moving 
On  mountain  and  dale, 


And  all  things  grow  loving, 

And  all  things  grow  bright : 
Buds  bloom  in  the  meadows, 

Milk  foams  in  the  pail, 
There  is  scent  in  the  shadows, 

And  sound  in  the  light : 
O  listen  !  he  passes 

Thro'  valleys  of  flowers, 
With  springing  of  grasses 

And  singing  of  showers. 
Earth  wakes— he  has  called  her, 

Whose  voice  she  holds  dear  ; 
She  was  waiting  for  Balder, 

And  Balder  is  here  ! 


"Mid    mountains    white     by    rainbows 
spanned, 

Upon  his  knees  he  sank, 
And  melted  in  his  hollow'd  hand 

The  stainless  snows,  and  drank. 

And  far  beneath  in  mists  of  heat 

Great  purple  valleys  slept, 
And  flashing  bright  beneath  his  feet 

The  loosen'd  cataracts  leapt. 

Down  to  those  happy  vales  he  drew 
Where  men  and  women  dwell, 

And  white  snow  melted,  green  grass  grew, 
Where'er  his  footprints  fell. 

Then  night  by  night  and  day  by  day 

His  deepest  joy  was  found 
In  watching  happy  things  of  clay 

And  hearing  human  sound. 

All  human  eyes  to  him  were  sweet, 
He  loved  the  touch  of  hands, 

He  kissed  the  print  of  human  feet 
Upon  the  soft  sea-sands. 

Most  silently  he  went  and  came, 
With  mild  and  blissful  mien, 

Bright  as  a  beam  his  face  would  flame 
Amid  the  forests  green. 

To  timid  mortals  passing  by 

He  seemed  a  vision  fair, 
But  little  children  oft  drew  nigh, 

And  let  him  smooth  their  hair  ; 

And  witless  me.n  would  come  to  him 

With  wild  and  eldritch  cries, 
And  lying  in  the  moonbeams  dim 

Would  gaze  into  his  eyes ! 


454 


BALDER    THE  BEAUTIFUL. 


His  voice  was  in  the  lonely  wood, 
And  by  the  nameless  stream, — 

He  shed  in  silent  solitude 
The  peaceful  rays  of  dream. 

From  vale  to  vale  he  went,  and  blest 
The  wild  beast  and  the  bird, — 

While  deep  within  the  glad  Earth's  breast 
The  founts  of  being  stirred.  .  .  . 

He  sat  down  in  a  lonely  land 
Of  mountain,  moor,  and  mere, 

And  watch'd,  with  chin  upon  his  hand, 
Dark  maids  that  milk'd  the  deer. 

And  while  the  sun  set  in  the  skies, 

And  stars  shone  in  the  blue, 
They  sang  sweet  songs,  till  Balder's  eyes 

Were  sad  with  kindred  dew. 

He  passed  along  the  hamlets  dim 
With  twilight's  breath  of  balm, 

And  whatsoe'er  was  touch'd  by  him 
Grew  beautiful  and  calm. 

The  old  man  sitting  on  the  grass 
Look'd  up  'neath  hoary  hair, 

And  felt  some  heavenly  presence  pass 
And  gladden'd  unaware ! 

He  came  unto  a  hut  forlorn 

As  evening  shadows  fell, 
And  saw  the  man  among  the  corn, 

The  woman  at  the  well. 

And  entering  the  darken'd  place, 

He  found  the  cradled  child  ; 
Stooping  he  lookt  into  its  face, 

Until  it  woke  and  smiled  ! 

Then  Balder  passed  into  the  night 

With  soft  and  shining  tread, 
The  cataract  called  upon  the  height, 

The  stars  gleam'd  overhead. 

He  raised  his  eyes  to  those  cold  skies 

Which  he  had  left  behind,— 
And  saw  the  banners  of  the  gods 

Blown  back  upon  the  wind. 

He  watch'd  them  as  they  came  and  fled, 

Then  his  divine  eyes  fell. 
'  I  love  the  green  Earth  best, '  he  said, 

•And  I  on  Earth  will  dwell  I ' 


ALL  THINGS  BLEST  BY  BALDER. 

So  when  his  happy  feet  had  wander'd  far, 
When  all  the  birds  had  brighten'd  and  his 

hand 

Had  linger'd  on  the  brows  of  all  the  beasts, 
He  came  among  the  valleys  where  abode 
Mortals  that  walk  erect  upon  the  ground. 
First,  southward  passing,  he  beheld  those 

men 

Who,  where  the  snow  for  ever  lieth,  dwell 
In  caverns  of  the  ground  and  swathe  their 

limbs 

In  skins  of  beasts  :  these  felt  his  glory  pass, 
But  knew  it  not,  because  their  eyes  were  dim 
With  many  nights  of  darkness.  Round 

their  doors 

Sorrel  blood-red  he  cast  and  saxifrage, 
And  singing  passed  away  1    Then  roam'd 

he  on, 
Past  porphyry  and  greenstone  crags  that 

line 

Limitless  oceans  of  unmelting  ice, 
Until  he  enter'd  valleys  kindlier 
That  redden'd  into  ruby  as  he  came  ; 
And  in  among  the  countless  deer  he  stole, 
Marking  their  horns  with  golden  moss,  and 

singing 

A  strange  soft  song  their  souls  could  under- 
stand. 

Then  as  the  Earth  grew  fairer,  presently 
He   came    beneath    the    shade    of   forest 

leaves, — 
And  deep  among  the  emerald  depths  he 

found 
Those  mortal  men  who  dwell  in  woods  and 

build 
Their  dwellings  of  the  scented  boughs  of 

trees. 

And  often,  with  his  cheek  upon  his  hand, 
Balder  would  sit  and  watch  the  smoke  of 

fire 

Upcurling  thro*  the  branches  heavenward, 
While  to  and  fro  in  sunshine  passed  the 

shapes 
Of  men  and  women.     Most  he  loved  to 

mark 
Those  forms  which  gods  made  fairest,  and 

to  hear 
Those  voices  gods  nn  le  sweetest  ;  but  his 

hand, 


BALDENS  RETURN  TO  EARTH. 


455 


Falling  unseen,  was  gentlest  on  the  hair 
Of  children  and  of  hoary  aged  men. 

Then  Balder  said,  '  The  Earth  is  fair,  and 

fair, 

Yea  fairer  than  the  stormy  lives  of  gods, 
The  lives  of  gentle  dwellers  on  the  Earth  ; 
For  shapen  are  they  in  the  likenesses 
Of  goddesses  and  gods,  and  on  their  limbs 
Sunlight  and  moonlight  mingle,  and  they  lie 
Happy  and  calm  in  one  another's  arms 
O'er-canopied  with  greenness ;   and  their 

hands 

Have  fashion'd  fire  that  springeth  beautiful 
Straight  as  a  silvern  lily  from  the  ground, 
Wondrously  blowing ;  and  they  measure 

out 
Glad  seasons  by  the  pulses  of  the  stars. 

0  Spirit  whom  I  know  not,  tho1  I  fear 
Thy  shadow  on  my  soul  where'er  I  go, 
Almighty  Father,  tho'  thou  lov'st  me  not, 

1  love  thy  children  !     I  could  sit  all  hours, 
Just  looking  into  their  still  heavenly  eyes, 
Holding  their  hands  !     Most  dear  they  are 

to  me, 

Because  they  are  my  brethren  ; — beautiful, 
My  brethren  and  thy  children  ! ' 

O'er  his  head 

The  blue  sky  darken'd,  and  a  thund'rous 
voice 

Murmur'd  afar  off, — and  in  great  black 
drops 

Came  out  of  heaven  the  blind  and  desolate 
rain. 

But  Balder  gazing  upward  reach'd  out  arms 

And  bless' d  it  as  it  fell ;  and  lo,  it  grew 

Silvern  and  lovely  as  an  old  man's  hair  ! 

And  scents  came  out  of  the  rich-soiled 
earth, 

And  all  the  boughs  were  glad  and  jewel- 
hung, 

Till  very  softly,  very  silently, 

The  shower  ceased,  with  kisses  tremulous 

On  Balder's  lifted  hands  ! 

Even  so  he  turn'd 
The  saddest  things  to  beauty.     With  his 

face 
Came  calm  and    consecration ;    and    the 

Earth 

Uplifting  sightless  eyes  in  a  new  joy, 
Answer' d  the  steadfast  smile  of  the  still 

heavens 


With  one  long  look  of  peace.     In  those 

strange  days 
The  wild  wind  was  his  playmate, — yea,  the 

blast 

New-loosen'd  by  the  very  hands  of  gods 
Leapt  to  him  like  a  lamb,  and  at  his  smile 
Fell  at  his  feet,  and  slept.     Then  out  of 

heaven 
Came  lightnings,  from  whose  terror  every 

face 
Of    humankind     was     hidden, — meteors, 

flames, 

Forms  of  the  fiery  levin,  such  as  wait 
For  ever  at  the  angry  beck  of  gods. 
But  Balder  stood  upon  a  promontory, 
And  saw  them  shining  o'er  the  open  sea, 
And  on  the  fields  of  ether  crimson'd  red  ; 
And  lo,  he  Ifted  up  a  voice  and  cried, 
'  O  beautiful  wild  children  of  the  fire, 
Whence  come  ye  ?  whither  go  ye  ?    Be  at 

peace, 
Come  hither  ! '  and  like  soft  white  stingless 

snakes 

That  crawl  on  grass,  the  fiery  meteors  came, 
Licking  his  feet  in  silence,  looking  up 
With  luminous  eyes  ! 

Ev'n  as  he  conquer'd  these, 
Heaven's  fiery  messengers,  he  tamed  the 

hearts 

Of  human  things,  and  in  the  sun  they  sat 
Weaving  green  boughs,  or  wooing  in  the 

shade, 

Or  leading  home  the  white  and  virgin  bride. 
For  as  the  holy  hunger  and  desire 
Came  quickening  in  the  hearts  of  birds  and 

beasts, 

Ev'n  so  woke  love  within  the  hearts  of  men  ; 
And  out  of  love  came  children  ;  and  the 

Earth 
Was  merry  with  new  creatures  thronging 

forth 
Like  ants  that  quicken  on  the  sun-kist  sod. 

IV. 

THE  CRY  FROM  THE  GROUND. 

And    Balder    bends   above    them,    glory- 

crown'd, 
Marking  them    as    they  creep  upon  the 

ground, 

Busy  as  ants  that  toil  without  a  sound, 
With  only  gods  to  mark. 


456 


BALDER    THE  BEAUTIFUL. 


But  list !  O  list !  what  is  that  cry  of  pain, 
Faint  as  the  far-off  murmur  of  the  main  ? 
Stoop  low  and  hearken,  Balder !  List 

again  ! 
'  Lo  !  Death  makes  all  things  dark  ! ' 

Ay  me,  it  is  the  earthborn  souls  that  sigh, 
Coming  and  going  underneath  the  sky  ; 
They  move,  they  gather,  clearer  grows  their 
cry— 

0  Balder,  bend,  and  hark  ! 

The  skies  are  still  and  calm,  the  seas  asleep, 
In  happy  light  the  mortal  millions  creep, 
Yet  listen,  Balder !— still  they  murmur  deep, 

1  Lo  !  Death  makes  all  things  dark. ' 

[Oh,  listen  !  listen  !]  '  Blessed  is  the  light, 
We  love  the  golden  day,  the  silvern  night, 
The  cataracts  leap,  the  woods  and  streams 

are  bright, 
We  gladden  as  we  mark. 

'  Crying  we  come,  but  soon  our  cheeks  are 

dried— 

We  wander  for  a  season  happy-eyed, 
And  we  forget  how  our  gray  sires  have 

sigh'd, 
"  Lo  I  Death  makes  all  things  dark." 

1  For  is  the  sun  not  merry  and  full  of  cheer? 
Is  it  not  sweet  to  live  and  feel  no  fear  ? 
To  see  the  young  lambs  leaping,  and  to 

hear 
The  cuckoo  and  the  lark  ? 

'  Is  toil  not  blest,  is  it  not  blest  to  be? 
To  climb  the  snows,  to  sail  the  surging  sea, 
To  build  our  saeters  where  our  flocks  roam 

free? 
But  Death  makes  all  things  dark. 

'  Is  love  not  blest,  is  it  not  brave  and  gay 
With  strong  right  hand  to  bear  one's  bride 

away, 

To  woo  her  in  the  night  time  and  the  day 
With  no  strange  eyes  to  mark  ? 

'And  blest  are  children,  springing  fair  of 

face 

Like  gentle  blossoms  in  the  dwelling-place  ; 
We  clasp  them  close,  forgetting  for  a  space 
Death  makes  the  world  so  dark. 


'  And  yet  though  life  is  glad  and  love  divir 
This  Shape  we  fear  is  here  i'  the  sumr 

shine, — 
He  blights  the  fruit  we  pluck,  the  \vres 

we  twine, 
And  soon  he  leaves  us  stark. 

'  He  haunts  us  fleetly  on  the  snowy  steep, 
He  finds  us  as  we  sow  and  as  we  reap, 
He  creepeth  in  to  slay  us  as  we  sleep, — 
Ah  !  Death  makes  all  things  dark  ! 

1  Yea,  when  afar  over  our  nets  hang  we, 

He  walks  unto  us  even  on  the  sea  ; 

The  wind  blows  in  his  hair,  the  foam  fli 

free 
O'er  many  a  sinking  bark  ! 

1  Pity  us,  gods,  and  take  this  god  away, 
Pity  us,  gods,  who  made  us  out  of  clay, 
Pity  us,  gods,  that  our  sad  souls  may  say, 
"  Bright  is  the  world,  which  Death  a  space 
made  dark."  ' 


v. 
THE  SHADOW  ON  THE  EARTH. 

Now  all  his  peace  was  poison'd  and  he 

found 

No  solace  in  the  shining  eyes  of  day, 
Starlight  and  moonlight  now  seem'd  sor- 
rowful, 

And  in  his  soul  there  grew  the  sense  of  tears. 
For  wheresoe'er  he  wander'd,  whatsoe'er 
He  gazed  on,  whether  in  the  light  or  dark, 
Was  troubled  by  a  portent. 

Evermore, 

Listening  to  nature's  sad  unceasing  moan, 
Balder  remember'd  that  pale  haunting 

Shape 

Which  he  had  seen  in  those  primaeval  woods 
Where  he  was  foster'd  by  the  happy  Earth  ; 
And  those  sad  tales  the  mother-goddess  told 
Of  mortal  men,  and  how  they  waste  and 

wane, 

Came  back  upon  his  life  with  fearful  gleams. 
Yea,  Balder' s  heart  was  heavy.  All  in  vain 
He  wove  wild  runes  around  the  flowers  and 

trees, 
And  round  the  necks  of  beasts  and  gentle 

birds ; 
For  evermore  the  cold  hand  found  them 

out, 
And  evermore  they  darkly  droop' d  and  died. 


BALD  EPS  RETURN  TO  EARTH. 


457 


This    direful    thing  was  on    the  helpless 

Earth, 

Unprison'd,  unconfined.     Before  his  face 
It  faded,  and  before  his  eager  touch 
Melted  and  changed,  but  evermore  again 
It  gather'd  into  dreadful  lineaments, 
And  passed  with  arms  outreaching  on  its 

way. 

Then  Balder  lifted  up  his  trembling  hands 
To  heaven,  crying,  'FATHER!'  and  no 

sound 

Came  from  the  frozen  void  ;  and  once  again, 
4  O  Mother,  Mother  ! '  but  pale  Frea  lay 
Stone-still  in  anguish  at  the  Father's  feet, 
And  dared  not  answer  ;  and  he  cried  once 

more, 

'  Gods,  gods,  immortal  gods  ! '  when  sud- 
denly 

He  saw  across  the  open  arctic  heaven 
The  hosts  of  Asgard,  ev'n  as  sunset  clouds 
That  drift  confusedly  in  masses  bright, 
Trooping,  with  blood-red  rays  upon  their 

heads, 

To  fight  against  the  meteor  snakes  that  flash 
Far  northward  in  the  white  untrodden 

wastes. 
They  passed,  they  saw  not,  but  he  heard 

their  feet 

Afar  as  muffled  thunder,  and  he  cried, 
'  O  Slayers  of  the  snake,  immortal  gods, 
Come  hither  and  slay  the  slayer,  that  the 

world 
May  rest  in  peace  1 ' 

If  ever  his  faint  cry 
Reach'd  to  their  ears,  the  dark  gods  only 

smiled, 

With  smiles  like  sullen  lightning  on  the  lips 
Of  tempest ;  and  he  found  no  comfort  there. 
Nor  from  the  mouths  of  flower,  or  bird,  or 

tree, 

Sea-fern,  or  sighing  shell  upon  the  shore, 
Came  any  answer  when  he  question'd  low, 
'What  is  this  thing  ye  fear?  who  sent  it 

hither, 
This  shape  which  moaning  mortals  christen 

Death  ? ' 
But  from  the  darkness  of  his  own  heart's 

pity, 

And  from  all  things  in  unison — the  gloom 
Of  midnight,  and  the  trouble  of  the  clouds, 
From  sunless  waters,  solitary  woods, 


There  came  a  murmur,  '  None  can  answer 

thee, 
Save  him  thou  followest  with  weary  feet ! ' 

Wherefore  he  wander'd  on,   and  still  in 

vain 

Sought  Death  the  slayer.  Into  burial-places, 
Heapen  with  stones  and  seal'd  with  slime 

of  grass. 
He  track'd  him,  found  him  sitting  lonely 

there 
Like  one  that  dreams,  his  dreadful  pitiless 

eyes 

Fix'd  on  the  sunset  star.     Or  oftentimes 
Beheld  him  running  swiftly  like  a  wolf 
Who  scents  some  stricken  prey  along  the 

ground. 

Or  saw  him  into  empty  huts  crawl  slow, 
And  while  the  man  and  woman  toiled  i'  the 

field, 

Gaze  down  with  stony  orbs  a  little  space 
Upon  the  sickly  babe,  which  open'd  eyes, 
And  laugh'd,   and  spread  its  little  faded 

hands 

In  elfin  play.     Nay,  oft  in  Balder's  sight 
The  form   seem'd  gentle,    and    the    fatal 

face 

Grew  beautiful  and  very  strangely  fair. 
Yet  evermore  while  his  swift  feet  pursu  d, 
Darkling  it  fled  away,  and  evermore 
Most  pitiful  rose  cries  of  beasts  and  birds, 
Most  desolate  rose  moans  of  stricken  men, 
Till   Balder  wept  for  sorrow's  sake,  and 

cried. 
'  Help  me,  my  Father  ! ' 

Even  as  he  spake, 
A  gray  cloud  wept  upon  the  Earth,  which 

wore 
A  gentle    darkness ;  and  the  wastes  and 

woods, 
The  mountains  trembling  in   their  hoary 

hair, 

The  mighty  continents  and  streams  and  seas, 
Uplifted  a  low  voice  of  mystery 
And  protestation.     Then  a  winged  wind 
Caught  up  the  sound  and  bore  it  suddenly 
To  the  great  gates  of  Asgard,  so  that  all 
Within  the  shadowy  City  heard  ;  and  He 
Who  sitteth  far  beyond  upon  his  throne, 
Immortal,  terrible,  and  desolate, 
Heard,  but  was  silent ;  and  no  answer  came, 
No  help  or  answer,  from  the  lips  of  heaven. 


458 


BALDER    THE   BEAUTIFUL. 


ON  THE  HEIGHTS— EVENING. 

MOUNTAIN  GIRL. 

Art  them  a  god?  thy  brow  is  shining  so  f 
O  thou  art  beautiful !     What  is  thy  name? 


Balder, 


Look. 


BALDER. 
GIRL. 

Now  let  me  look  into  thy  face. 

BALDER. 
GIRL. 

How  I  love  thee  I 

BALDER. 

And  thy  name  ? 

GIRL. 

Snow-blossom. 

That  is  my  mother  standing  at  the  door, 
Shading  her  face  and  gazing  up  the  hill. 
I  keep  my  mother's  reindeer,  and  each  night 
Milk  them,  and  drive  them  to  their  pastur- 
age. 
How  clear  thine  eyes  are !    They  are  like 

that  star 
Up  yonder,  twinkling  on  the  snow  1 

BALDER. 

Come  hither ! 
Thou  hast  bright  hair  like  mine,  and  starry 

eyes, 
Snow-blossom,   and    a  voice    like    falling 

water ; 

Thy  flesh  is  like  the  red  snow  and  the  white 
Mingled  together  softly,  and  thy  breath 
Is  scented  like  the  fragrant  thyme  in  flower. 
Mine  eyes  have  look'd  on  many  shapes  like 

thine — 
Yet  thou  art  fairest. 

GIRL. 

I  am  call'd  Snow-blossom 
Because  I  am  not  brown  like  other  maids, 
And  when  a  little  child  I  was  so  white ! 

BALDER. 

Snow-lily  ! 

GIRL. 

They  are  calling — I  must  go — 
Come  down  with  me,  and  by  our  saeter's 

fire 


Slumber  this  night,  and  ere  thou  liest  d( 
I'll  sing  to  thee  the  strange  old  songs  I  kr 
Of  Death,  and  of  the  battle-fields  of  gods, 
And  of  the  wondrous  City  where  they  dv 
Yonder  afar  away  ! 

BALDER. 

What  knowest  thou 
Of  Death  or  gods? 

GIRL. 

Only  last  winter  tide 

I  saw  my  father  die  :  he  drew  one  breath, 
Then  went  to  sleep  ;  but  when  we  touch'c 

his  hands 
They  had  no  warmth,  and  his  twain 

were  glazed, 

Gazing  at  something  that  we  saw  not. 
We  wrapt  him  warm  in  skins  and  in 

hands 

We  sethis  seal-spear  and  his  seal-hide  thong, 
And  placed  him  sitting  in  the  sunless  earth, 
Crouch'd  resting  on  the  ground  with  knees 

drawn  up 

As  many  a  night  he  sat  beside  the  fire. 
And  that  the  fierce  white  bear  might  find 

him  not, 
We  wall'd  him  up  with  earth  and  mighty 

stones, 
Seal'd  tight  with  snow  and  water  :  then  we 

said 
A  prayer  to  the  good  gods,  and  left  him 

there 
Where  they  might  find  him. 

BALDER. 

Hast  thou  seen  that  Death 
Which  smote  thy  father? 

GIRL. 

Nay  ! — no  mortal  thing 
Sees  him  and  lives.     He  walks  about  the 

Earth 
At  his  good  will,  and  smites  whate'er  he 

lists, 
Both  young  and  old.     There  is  no  spirit 

at  all 
More  strong  than  he ! 

BALDER. 

Is  he  a  god  ?  • 

GIRL. 

I  know  not 


BALDERS  RETURN  TO  EARTH. 


459 


BALDER. 

And  will  thy  father  waken? 

GIRL. 

When  the  gods 

Find  out  his  grave,  and  open  up  the  stones, 
Then  he  will  waken,  and  will  join  the  hosts 
Of  Hermod  and  of  Thor  ;  for  he  was  brave, 
My  father  :  he  could  keep  his  own,  and  ere 
He  took  my  mother,  with  his  spear  he  slew 
Her  father  and  her  brother,  who  were  wroth 
Because  they  hated  him  ;  and  evermore 
When  he  shed  blood,  he  made  his  offering 
To  Hermod  and  the  rest. 


And  thou,  Snow-blossom, 
Thou  in  thy  turn  wilt  wed  a  mighty  man, 
And  bear  strong  children  ? 

GIRL. 

Yes  ! — a  man  of  strength, 
Fair  like  my  father.    I  would  have  him  fierce 
As  bears  are,  bearded,  a  seal-strangler,  swift, 
And  a  great  hunter  with  a  boat  and  dogs. 
But  I  would  have  him  very  cunning  too, 
Knowing  old  songs  and  wise  at  weaving 

runes, 

That  in  the  season  when  the  sun  is  fled 
We  might  be  merry  thro*  the  long  cold 

nights 
Waiting  for  summer  1 

BALDER. 

Hark! 

GIRL. 

It  is  my  mother 
Calling  again  !    Wilt  thou  not  come  ? 

BALDER. 

Go  thou  ! 

I  shall  fare  further  o'er  the  summer  hills. 
Snow-blossom  I     Let  me  kiss  thee  ere  thou 
goest ! 

GIRL. 

Yesl 

BALDER. 

Now  farewell !  .  .  . 

HOW  lightly  down  the  height 
She  leapeth  with  the  leaping  cataract, 
And  now  she  turns  and  waves  her  little  hand, 
And  plunging  down  she  fades.     And  in  the 
world 


Dwell  countless  thousands  beautiful  as  she, 
Happy  and  virgin,  drinking  with  no  pain 
The  vital  air  of  heaven  !     O  pink  flesh 
Over  the  warm  nest  of  a  singing  heart 
Heap'd  soft  as  blossoms  !    O  strange  starry 

eyes 

Of  mortals,  beautiful  as  mine  !     O  flame 
Out  of  soft  nostrils  trembling,  like  the  light 
From  lips  of  flowers  !    O  wonder  of  Earth's 

life, 
Why  is  it  that  the  great  gods  chase  thee 

down? 

Why  is  it  that  thou  fallest  evermore 
When  thou  art  fairest  ?    Up  and  down  the 

world 
Each  creature  walks,   and  o'er  each  red 

mouth  hangs 
Breath  like  a  little  cloud,  faint  smoke  of 

breath 

Blown  from  the  burning  of  the  fire  within. 
Great  gods,  if  as  they  say  ye  fashion'd  them, 
Why  do  ye  suffer  this  wild  wind  of  doom 
To  wither  what  ye  made  so  wonderful  ? 

The  vale  is  dark,  the  snow-fields  on  the 

height 
Are    purpled    with    the    midnight 

Steadfastly 

One  lamp  shines  in  the  valley,  and  above 
The  still  star  shines  an  answer.     Slumber 

well, 

Snow-blossom  !    May  no  shadow  of  the  gods 
Come  near  to  trouble  thee  in  thy  repose  ! 
Sleep  like  immortal    raiment    wrap    thee 

round, 
To  charm  away  the  rayless  eyes  of  Death  1 

VII. 

THE  Vow  OF  BALDER. 

Bright  Balder  cried,  '  Curst  be  this  thing 

Which  will  not  let  man  rest, 
Slaying  with  swift  and  cruel  sting 

The  very  babe  at  breast ! 

1  On  man  and  beast,  on  flower  and  bird, 

He  creepeth  evermore  ; 
Unseen  he  haunts  the  Earth  ;  unheart7 

He  crawls  from  door  to  door. 

'  I  will  not  pause  in  any  land, 

Nor  sleep  beneath  the  skies, 
Till  I  have  held  him  by  the  hand 

And  gazed  into  his  eyes  I ' 


46o 


BALDER    THE  BEAUTIFUL. 


V. 

B ALDER'S  QUEST  FOR 
DEATH. 

i. 

HE  sought  him  on  the  mountains  bleak  and 
bare 

And  on  the  windy  moors  ; 
He  found  his  secret  footprints  everywhere. 

Yea,  ev'n  by  human  doors. 

All  round  the  deerfold  on  the  shrouded 

height 

The  starlight  glimmer'd  clear  ; 
Therein    sat    Death,    wrapt    round    with 

vapours  white 
Touching  the  dove-eyed  deer. 

And  thither  Balder  silent-footed  flew, 
But  found  the  phantom  not ; 

The  rain-wash'd  moon  had  risen  cold  and 

blue 
Above  that  lonely  spot. 

Then  as  he  stood  and  listen'd,  gazing  round 

In  the  pale  silvern  glow, 
He  heard  a  wailing  and  a  weeping  sound 

From  the  wild  huts  below. 

He  mark'd  the  sudden  flashing  of  the  lights, 
He  heard  cry  answering  cry — 

And  lo  !  he  saw  upon  the  silent  heights 
A  shadowy  form  pass  by. 

Wan  was  the  face,  the  eyeballs  pale  and 
wild, 

The  robes  like  rain  wind-blown, 
And  as  it  fled  it  clasp' d  a  naked  child 

Unto  its  cold  breast-bone.  ' 

And  Balder  clutch'd  its  robe  with  fingers 
weak 

To  stay  it  as  it  flew — 
A  breath  of  ice  blew  chill  upon  his  cheek, 

Blinding  his  eyes  of  blue. 

'Twas  Death !  'twas  gone ! — All  night  the 

shepherds  sped, 
Searching  the  hills  in  fear  ; 
At  dawn  they  found  their  lost  one  lying 

dead 
Up  by  the  lone  black  mere  ; 


And  lo  !  they  saw  the  fatal  finger-mark, 
Which  reacheth  young  and  old, 

Seal'd,  livid  still,  upon  its  eyelids  dark 
And  round  its  nipples  cold. 

Then  Balder  moan'd  aloud  and  smote 
breast, 

'  O  drinker  of  sweet  breath, 
Curst  be  thy  cruel  lips  !  I  shall  not  rest 

Until  I  clasp  thee,  Deaih  ! ' 

He  track'd  the  footprints  in  the  mornii 

gray 

From  rocky  haunt  to  haunt. 
Far  up  the  heights  a  wolf  had  crost  Death'; 

way  ; 
It  lay  there,  lean  and  gaunt. 

He  reach'd  the  highest  snows  and  four 

them  strewn 

With  bleaching  bones  of  deer.  .  .  . 
Night  came  again,— he  listen'd  'neath 

moon 
Shining  most  cold  and  clear. 

Beneath  him  stretch'd  vast  valleys  green 

and  fair, 
Still  in  the  twilight  shine, 
With  great  waste  tarns  and  cataracts  hung 

in  air, 
And  woods  of  fir  and  pine ; 

And  on  the  tarns  lay  dim  red  dreams  of  day 
The  midnight  sun  cast  there, — 

Sunlight  and  moonlight  blending  in  one  rav 
Of  mother-o'-pearl  most  fair. 

He  wander'd  down  thro'  woods  that  fi  inged 

the  snows, 

Down  cliffs  with  ivy  crown'd, 
He  passed  by  lonely  tarns  whence  duskly 

rose 
Great  cranes,  and  hover'd  round. 

He  paused  upon  a  crimson  crag,  and  lo  ! 

Deep  down  at  the  crag's  foot, 
The  Shape  he  sought,  in  shadow,  far  below, 

With  folded  wings,  sat  mute  ! 

Ev'n  as  a  vulture  of  the  east  it  seem'd 
Brooding  on  something  dead ; 

Dark  was  the  form  on  which  its  cold  eyes 

gleam'd, 
And  still  and  heavy  as  lead. 


B ALDER'S   QUEST  FOR  DEATH. 


461 


Then  Balder  swung  himself  from  tree  to 
tree, 

And  reach'd  the  fatal  place  !  .  .  . 
The  phantom  fled  as  silent  wild  things  flee, 

But  a  white  human  face 

Gleam'd  from   the  ground ;   and   Balder's 

glory  shone 

On  a  wild  cowherd's  hair  ! 
Too  late — his  cheeks  were  chill— his  breath 

was  gone — 
His  bosom  torn  and  bare. 

The  Shape  unseen  had  cast  him  o'er  the 
steep, 

Down,  down,  the  abysses  dim, — 
Then,  as  an  eagle  folio weth  a  sheep, 

Had  flutter'd  after  him  ! 

His  bearskin  dress  was  bloody  ;  in  his  grip 
He  clutch' d  a  cowherd's  horn  ; 

His  eyes  were  glazed,  and  on  his  stained  lip 
Death's  kisses  lay  forlorn. 

But  Balder  touch'd  him  and  his  face  grew 

fair, 

Shining  beneath  the  skies, 
Yea,  Balder  crost  his  hands,  and  smooth'd 

his  hair, 
And  closed  his  piteous  eyes.  .  .   . 

Not  resting  yet,  the  bright  god  wander'd 
soon 

Down  by  the  torrent's  track  ; 
And  lo  !  a  sudden  glory  hid  the  moon, 

And  dawn  rose  at  his  back. 


II. 
Dawn  purple  on  the  peaks,  and  pouring  in 

floods 

Into  the  valleys  fair, 
Encrimsoning  the  lakes  and  streams  and 

woods, 
Illuming  heaven  and  air. 

And    every  creature    gladden'd,   and    the 

Earth 

Turn'd  on  her  side  and  woke  : 
There  came  sweet  music  ;  sunny  gleams  of 

mirth 
Across  the  landscape  broke. 

And  when  a  thousand  eyes  of  happy  things 
Had  open'd  all  around, 


And  when  each   form   that  blooms,  ea<fi 

form  that  sings, 
Saw  Balder  glory-crown'd, 

Standing  like  marble  bathed  in  liquid  flame, 

Perfect  of  face  and  limb, 
Infinite  voices  syllabled  his  name, 

And  Earth  smiled  up  at  him  ! 

All  shapes  that  knew  him  (and  all  shapes 
that  be 

Knew  Balder's  face  that  hour) 
Grew  glorified — the  torrent  and  the  tree, 

The  white  cloud  and  the  flower. 

The  meres  flash'd  golden  mirrors  for  his 
face  ; 

The  forests  saw  and  heard  ; 
The  cataracts  brighten'd ;  in  its  secret  place 

The  sunless  runlet  stirred. 

A  light  of  green  grass  ran  before  his  feet, 
His  brow  was  bright  with  dew, 

Where'er  he  trod  there  sprang  a  flower  full 

sweet, 
Rose,  crimson,  yellow,  or  blue. 

But  Balder's  face  was  pale,  altho'  his  frame 

Its  natal  splendour  wore ; 
Altho'  the  green   Earth  gladden'd  as   he 
came, 

God  Balder's  soul  was  sore. 

1 0  happy  Earth !  O  happy  beams  of  day  ! 

O  gentle  things  of  breath  ! 
Blest  were  ye,  if  some  hand  divine  might 
slay 

The  slayer,  even  Death  ! ' 

He  spake,  and  he  was  answer'd.    By  his  side 

A  crimson  river  ran, 
Out  of  the  cloven  mountains  spreading  wide 

It  water'd  vales  for  man. 

Amid  its  shallows  flowers  and  sedge  did 
twine, 

But  in  the  midst  'twas  deep, 
And  on  its  sides  fed  flocks  of  goats  and  kine 

O'er  meadows  soft  as  sleep. 

Suddenly,  while  upon  its  marge  he  stood, 
His  heart  grew  cold  as  clay, — 

For  lo !   the  phantom  !   sailing  down   the 

flood, 
Dim  in  the  dawn  of  day  !  .  .  , 


462 


BALDER    THE  BEAUTIFUL. 


'Mid  drifted  foxglove-bells  and  leaves  of 

green 

Uptorn  and  floating  light, 
There  came,  with  face  upturn'd,  now  hid, 

now  seen, 
A  maiden  dark  as  night — 

Her  raven  hair  was  loosen'd,  her  soft  breath 

Had  fled  and  left  no  stir, 
Her  eyes  were  open,  looting  up  at  Death, 

Who  drifted  down  with  her. 

Beside  her,  tangled  'mid  the  foxglove-bells, 
A  shepherd's  crook  was  cast, 

While  softly  on  the  waters  silvern  swells 
Her  form  was  floating  past. 

And  lo  !  with  eyes  of  feverish  fatal  light 

Fix'd  on  her  face  in  dream, 
Death  clung  unto  her  'mid  the  eddies  bright 

Upon  the  shining  stream. 

And  Balder  wail'd ;  and  wafted  down  that 
way, 

Death  saw  his  shape  and  knew, — 
Then,  like  a  falcon  startled  from  its  prey, 

Rose,  vanishing  from  view  1 

in. 
THE  FIGHT  OF  SHIPS. 

Now  Balder  came  across  the  great  sea-shore, 
And  saw  far  out  upon  the  windless  waves 
A  fight  of  water-dragons  fierce  as  fire, 
Winged  and  wild  and  wrought  about  with 

gold. 

And  dragon  unto  dragon  clash'd  and  clung, 
And  each  shriek'd  loud,  and  teeth  in  teeth 

were  set, 

Until  the  sea  was  crimson'd,  and  one  sank 
In  its  own  blood.  So  like  to  living  things 
They  seem'd,  but  ships  they  were  within 

whose  wombs 

Throbbed  many  savage  hearts.     And  sud- 
denly, 

Amid  that  clangour  of  sharp  steel  and  shriek 
Of  living  voices,  'mid  the  thick  o'  the  fight, 
When  in  the  stained  waters  all  around 
Men  to  the  brain  were  cloven  as  they  swam, 
Balder  saw  dimly,  hovering  on  wings, 
Ev'n  as  the  kestrel  hovers  poised  and  still 
With  glittering  eyes  searching  the  nether 

ground, 

The  Shape    he    sought.      As  the    bright 
dragons  rush'd 


This  way  and  that  with  rapid  sweep  of  oar 
And  as  the  tumult  passed  from  wave 

wave, 

It  follow'd,  as  the  falcon  followeth 
Some  fearful  quarry  creeping  on  the  grounc 
And  when  the  sunset  came,  and  the  gr 

din 
Was  hush'd,   and    torn   apart    from   or 

another 

The  dragons  darken'd  on  a  fiery  sea, 
The  Shape,  illumined  with  a  crimson  glei 
Still  linger'd  o'er  them  very  quietly, 
Scenting  the  slain  that  drifted  like  to  wee 
On  the  red  waters,  shoreward. 

Then  ale 
Cried  Balder,  '  FATHER  ! '  uttering  from  hi 

heart 

A  bitter  moan,  and  as  he  spake  he  saw, 
All  congregating  on  the  brazen  walls 
Of  sunset,  with  their  wild  eyes  looking  dov 
Feeding  upon  the  carnage  of  the  fight, 
The  gods   his   kin ;   and  like  to  evenii 

clouds, 

Crimson  and  golden  in  the  sunset  flame, 
They  would    perchance    have    seem'd 

human  eyes, 
But  his  perceived  them  clearly  and  discern'd 
The  rapture  in  their  faces  as  they  gazed. 
Yet  ne'er theless  he  cried,  '  Come  down, 

gods, 

And  help  me,  that  upon  this  fatal  thing 
I  lay  my  hand  ! '     They  laugh'd  reply,  and 

lo! 
He  saw  their  banners  raised  i'  the  wind, 

their  brands 
Flashing  and  moving. 

•  FATHER ! ' 

No  reply ; 

But  quiet  as  a  curtain  fell  the  night, 
Solemn,  without  a  star. 

Then  by  the  sea 
Silent  walk'd  Balder,  and  all  sounds  were 

still 

Beyond  him  on  the  bosom  of  the  deep. 
And  where  he  went  along  the  moonless 

sands 

He  made  a  brightness  such  as  ocean  shells 
Keep  in  their  iris'd  ears  ;  and  the  soft  sea 
Came  singing  round  his  silvern  feet  ;  and 

doves 


B ALDERS   QUEST  FOR   DEATH. 


463 


Came  out  of  caves  and  lit  upon  his  hands. 
Then  Balder  thought,  '  He  answer'd,  and 

has  sent 

The  darkness  as  a  token  ! '  and  ev'n  then 
He  blest  his  father. 

.  .  .  What  is  this  that  flames, 
Lurid  and  awful,  out  upon  the  sea? 
What  dusky  radiance,  tho'  the  world  is  dark, 
Shoots  like  a  comet  yonder  upon  the  sky  ? 
Seized  in  the  fangs  of  fire,  a  dragon-ship 
Consumes  and  shrieks,    and  as   it  burns 

illumes 

The  water  under  and  the  thunderous  rack 
Blackening  above  ;  and  Balder  as  he  stands 
Pallid  upon  a  headland,  on  his  face 
Catches  the  red  reflection  of  the  ray  ; 
Ocean  and  sky  are  crimson'd,  and  he  sees 
Black  shapes  that  hither  and  thither,  waving 

arms, 
Dart  'midst  the  flame  on  the  consuming 

decks 
And  plunge  with  shrill  scream  down  into 

the  sea. 

What  care  to  call  on  the  Immortals  now  ? 
He  looks,  one  hand  prest  hard  in  agony 
Upon  his  aching  heart,  and  he  discerns, 
Brooding  above  that  brightness,  poised  i' 

the  air, 
Down  gazing,    half  illumed,    half  lost  in 

light, 
The  Phantom !    As  the  ship  consumes  and 

fades, 

And  as  the  last  cry  rises  on  the  air, 
The  Shape  sinks  lower  with  no  waft  of 

wing. 

And  when  in  dumb  and  passionate  despair, 
Balder  looks  northward  once  again,  he  sees 
The  cloud-rack  parted,  the  cold  north  on 

fire, 

And  all  the  gods,  with  cruel  cheeks  aflame 
And  bright  eyes  glittering  like  cluster'd 

stars, 
Thronging  against  the  blacken'd  bars  of 

Heaven. 

IV. 

YDUN. 

Then  Balder  lifted  up  his  voice  and  cried, 
1  Curst  be  this  thing  and  you  who  sent  it 

hither, 

Tho'  ye  be  gods,  immortal,  and  my  kin  ; 
For  now  I  loathe  you,  deeming  lovelier  far 


The  black  hawk,  and  the  fox  upon  the 

ground, 
Who  slay  sweet  lives  not  knowing  what 

they  do  ; 
But  ye,  O  gods,  are  wise,  yet  Death's  sick 

scent 

Is  pleasant  to  your  nostrils.'     Loudly  afar 
A  laugh  of  thunder  answer'd,  and  the  shapes 
Still  congregated  in  the  glistening  north 
Flash'd  like    the    pale  aurora  one  white 

gleam 

Of  earthward-looking  eyes,  and  in  the  midst 
A  hoary  Face  like  to  a  moonlit  cloud, 
Silent,  and  staring  down  with  orbs  of  stone. 
And  on  this  last  did  Balder  gaze,  and  lo  ! 
He    shiver'd    cold,    his  cheek  divine  was 

blanch'd, 
And  with  no  further  word  he  turn'd  away. 

.  .  .  So  walk'd  he  by  the  Ocean,  till  that 

gleam 

Far  out  upon  the  crimson  waters  died  ; 
Till  night  grew  deeper  and  all  sounds  were 

still'd. 

And  all  that  night  his  human  heart  was 
turn'd 

Against  the  gods  his  kin,  against  the  god 

His  father  ;  for  he  thought,  '  He  made  this 
thing, 

He  sent  it  hither  to  the  happy  Earth  ; 

And  when  it  slays  they  gladden  in  the  halls 

Of  Asgard,  and  no  pity  fills  their  hearts 

For  gentle  stricken  men.'  Long  hours  he 
paced 

The  cold  sands  of  the  still  black  sea  ;  and 
where 

His  foot  fell  moonlight  lay  and  live  sea- 
snails 

Crept  glimmering  with  pink  horns  ;  and 
close  to  shore 

He  saw  the  legions  of  the  herring  flash, 

Swift,  phosphorescent,  on  the  surface  shin- 
ing 

Like  bright  sheet-lightning  as  they  came 
and  went. 

At  intervals,  from  the  abyss  beyond, 

Came  the  deep  roar  of  whales. 

Betimes  he  stood 
Silent,  alone,  upon  a  promontory 
And  now  about  him  like  white  rain  there  fell 
The  splendour  of  the  moonlight.  All  around 
The  calm  sea  rolled  upon  the  rocks  or  drew 


464 


BALDER    THE  BEAUTIFUL. 


Dark  surges  from  the  caverns,  issuing  thence 
Troubled  and  churn' d  to  boiling  pools  of 

foam. 

Erect  he  stood,  uplifting  his  white  hands  ; 
For  round  him  on  the  slippery  weed-hung 

reefs, 

Outcreeping  from  the  blackness  of  the  sea, 
In  legions  came  the  flocks  of  gentle  seals 
And  gray  sea  lions  with  their  lionesses. 
And  o'er  the  rocks  they  clomb  till  all  the  place 
Was  blacken'd,  and  the  rest  upon  the  sea, 
Their    liquid    eyeballs    in    the   moonlight 

burning, 
Swam  round  and  round  with  necks  out- 

stretch'd  to  gaze  ; 
And  those  beneath  him  touch'd  his  shining 

feet, 
And  when  he  raised  his  hand  and  blest 

them  all, 

Uplifted  heads  like  happy  flocks  of  sheep 
Bleating  their  joy ! 

Ev'n  then  he  heard  a  voice 
Cry  '  Balder  ! '  thrice,  and  turning  he  beheld 
Standing  above  him  on  the  promontory 
A  spirit  he  remember'd  ;  for  her  hair 
Swept  downward  like  the  silvern  willow's 

leaves, 

And  on  her  mystic  raiment  blue  as  heaven 
There  glimmer' d  dewy  drops  like  heavenly 

stars. 

And  as  he  turn'd  unto  her  he  perceived 
Her  deathlike  pallor,  and  he  straightway 

knew 

He  look'd  on  Ydun,  who  had  given  to  him 
Those  mystic  apples  which  immortal  forms 
For  ever  feed  on  evermore  renew'd. 

And  Ydun  said,  '  O  Balder,  I  could  hear 
Thy  lone  cry  yonder  in  the  silent  realms 
Where,  gathering  golden  asphodels  in 

meads 

Of  starlight  under  the  dark  Tree,  I  stray'd ; 
And  all  my  heart  was  troubled  for  thy  sake, 
My  brother,  and  I  came  across  the  worlds 
To  seek  thee,  bringing  in  my  veiled  breast 
More  fruits  to  heal  thee  and  to  make  thee 

strong 

Despite  the  gods  who  love  thee  not,  thy  kin  ; 
For  I  who  bring  them  love  thee,  knowing 

well 

There  stands  no  shape  in  the  celestial  halls 
So  beautiful  as  thou  1 ' 


And  as  she  spake 
She  drew  the  apples   forth  and   proffer'c 

them 
To  Balder's  lips  ;  but  on  those  lips  tl 

lay 

An  ashen  tinge  as  of  mortality. 
And  taking  not  the  gift  he  answer'd  low, 
'  O  Ydun,  let  me  give  thy  gift  to  men, 
That  they  may  eat  and  live  ! ' 

But  Ydun  sai( 
While  on  his  cheek  he  felt  her  breath  cor 

cold 
As  frosty  moonlight, — '  Name  them  n< 

but  eat— 
Eat  thou,  and  live.     O  Balder,  men 

born 

To  gather  earthly  fruit  a  little  space, 
And  then,  grown  old  with  sudden  lapse  of 

years, 

To  wither  up  and  die  ;  and  fruit  like  this 
Could  never  light  on  any  human  lip 
The  flame-like  breath  of  immortality. 
Flesh  are  they,  and  must  fall ;  spirits  are  we, 
And  fed  with  life  diviner,  we  endure.' 

Then  Balder  said,  '  Dost  thou  not  weep  for 

them? 
Poor  mortals  with  their  shadows  on  the 

ground, 
Yet  kin  to  thee  and  me  !     He  made  them 

fair 

As  we  are,  tho'  they  sicken  and  are  slain  ; 
Yea,  by  a  god  accurst  that  haunts  the  world 
Their  hearts  are  set  asunder,  and  their  teeth 
Devour  each  other.      Lo  !    the  beautiful 

Earth 

Is  desolate  of  children,  strewn  with  dead, 
Sick  with  a  ceaseless    moan   of  stricken 

things 

Forever  coming  and  for  ever  going, — 
Like  wild  waves  darkly  driven  on  a  sea 
Eternally  distress'd." 

Coldly  replied 
The  goddess,  '  Take  no  heed  for  things  of 

clay, — 
For   'twere   as  well  to  weep  for  stricken 

birds, 
Or  flowers  that  in  their  season  fade  and 

fall, 
Or  beasts  that  mortals   slay   for  food  or 

cast 
Upon  thy  Father's  shrines  for  sacrifice, 


B ALDER'S   QUEST  FOR  DEATH— BALDER  AND  DEATH.     465 


As  mourn  for  that  dark  dust  beneath  thy 

feet 
Which  thou  call'st  men.     O  Balder,  take 

no  he^d— 
Be  wise— such  pity  ill  beseems  a  god  ! ' 

But  Balder  wrung  his  hands  and  wail'd  aloud 
In  a  sad  human  voice,  '  Not  pity  those  ? 
Hath  a  bird  fallen  in  my  sight  and  fail'd 
To  win  some  meed  of  tears  ?    Doth  a  beast 

die, 

I  would  not  wind  in  my  immortal  arms, 
And  kiss  into  a  new  and  lovelier  life  ? 
And  on  the  "dead  leaves  shed  i'  the  weary 

woods 
Do  I  not  strew  my  tears  divine,  like  dew  ? 

0  Ydun,  listen,  for  thou  know'st  me  not. 
The  taint  of  clay  is  on  me  and  I  lack 
The  large  cold  marble  heart  befitting  gods. 

1  drank  strange  mercy  from  the  dark  Earth's 

breast 

When  she  my  foster-mother  suckled  me 
Close  to  her  leafy  heart  ;  I  am  not  wise, 
Ay  me,  I  am  not  wise,  if  not  to  love 
The  happy  forms  below  me,  and  the  faces 
That  love  my  voice  and  gladden  in  my 

smile, 

Be  wisdom  ;  I  am  of  them  ;  I  have  learn' d 
The  pathos  of  the  setting  sun,  the  awe 
Of   moonlight  and  of   starlight;    nay,    I 

dream 

That  shape  which  sets  its  icy  hand  on  all 
Will  find  me  in  my  season  like  the  rest. 
They  are  my  brethren,  wanderers  in  the 

world, 

Yet  fatherless  and  outcast  like  myself, 
And  exiled  from  their  home  ! ' 

But  Ydun  said, 

'  That  shape  which  sets  its  icy  hand  on  all 
Need  never  trouble  thee,  if  thou  wilt  eat, 
Eat  as  I  bid,  and  live ; — nay,  Death  himself, 
Tame  as  a  hound  some  little  child  may  lead, 
Hath  fed  from  out  my  hand  and  from  my 

fruits 

Drank  immortality  ;  and  lo,  he  walks 
Immortal  among  mortals,  on  Earth's  ways 
Shedding  the  sad  leaves  of  humanity. 
For  this  is  written,  they  must  die  ;  and  those 
Who  die  in  battle  or  with  bloody  hands 
The  gods  redeem  and  snatch  to  deathless 

days 
Qf  terror  in  Valhalla  ;  but  the  rest, 


Weak  maiden-hearted    men    and  women 

pale, 

And  children,  dying  bloodless,  find  below 
A  nameless  and  an  everlasting  sleep.' 

O  Ydun,'  Balder  cried,  '  I  have  search'd 

the  Earth, 

And  have  not  found  him,  tho'  my  spirit  pants 
To  look  into  his  face  and  question  him, 
That  Death  of  whom  you  speak,  that  fan- 
tasy, 

[mmortal,  and  a  god  ;  but  evermore 
His  form  eludes  me  in  the  light  and  dark, 
And  evermore  beneath  my  feet  I  find 
Only  some  gentle  shape  that  he  hath  slain. ' 

Then  Ydun  smiled  as  pallid  starlight  smiles 
On  marble,  and  she  answer'd,  '  Eat,  then 

eat! 

And  by  the  gods  of  Asgard  I  will  swear 
To  lead  thee  to  him  and  to  read  a  rune 
Which  whisper'd  in  his  ear  shall  make  him 

meek 

And  weak  as  any  lamb  to  do  thy  will ; ' 
And  as  she  spake  she  held  the  apples  forth 
And  proffer' d  them  again  to  Balder 's  lips. 

Then  hungry  for  her  promise  Balder  ate, 
And  in  his  mouth  the  mingled  red  and  white 
Melted  as  snow,  and  suddenly  he  seem'd 
Grown  into  perfect  glory  like  the  moon 
Springing  all  silvern  from  a  summer  cloud. 


VI. 
BALDER   AND  DEATH. 


THE  ALTAR  OF  SACRIFICE. 
'  LOOK  ! '  Ydun  said  ;  and  pointed. 

Far  in  the  night 
She  had  led   Balder,— o'er  the    darken'd 

dales, 

And  by  the  silence  of  black  mountain  tarns, 
And  thro'  the  slumber  of  primaeval  woods, — 
Till  she  had  come  unto  an  open  plain 
Cover' d  with  ragged  heath  and  strewn  with 

stones 

As  with  the  broken  fragments  of  some  world 
Upheaven,  rent  by  earthquake.     And  the 

waste 

All  round  was  lonely  and  illimitable, 
A  tract  of  stone  and  heath  without  a  tree, 
HH 


466 


BALDER    THE   BEAUTIFUL, 


Save  where  against  the  blood-red  northern 

sky 
A  mountain  like  the  great  white  hand  of 

Earth 

Pointed  at  highest  heaven.    Far  out  beyond 
The  shadow  of  the  snowy  mountain,  rose 
Columns  gigantic  of  red  granite  rock 
Scarr'd  with  the  tempest,  hung  with  slimy 

moss, 

And  looming  in  the  cold  and  spectral  light 
Like  living  shapes  of  gods  ;  and  some  by 

storm 
Were  cast  upon  the  ground  and  lay  full 

length 
Like  giants  slain,  but  most  stood  poised  on 

end, 

Not  tottering,  with  their  shadows  wildly  cast 
Southward,  along  the  sward.     High  in  the 

midst 

Stones  fashion'd  as  an  altar  were  upraised, 
And  on  the  altar  was  a  coffin'd  space 
Wherein  a  man  full-grown  might  lie  his 

length 

And  with  his  pleading  eyes  upon  the  stars 
Make  ready  for  the  sacrificial  knife. 

•  Look  ! '  Ydun  said  ;  and  Balder  look'd  ; 

and  saw, 

Crouching  upon  the  altar,  one  that  loom'd 
Like  to  a  living  shape.     And  Ydun  said, 
'  That  is  thy  Father's  altar,  and  thereon 
Blood-offering  brighter  than    the    life    of 

lambs 

Is  scatter'd  by  his  priests  ;  at  sunset  here 
A  virgin  died,  and  all  the  desert  air 
Is  sweeter  for  her  breath  ;  and  those  black 

birds 

That  hover  o'er  the  altar  moaning  low 
Are  hungry  to  come  near  her  and  to  feed, — 
But  he  who  lieth  yonder  hath  not  fed 
His  own  immortal  hunger.  There  he  broods 
Still  as  a  star  above  her,  with  one  hand 
Placed  on  her  lifeless  breast ! ' 

Then  Balder  felt 

His  godhead  shrink  within  him  like  a  flame 
A  cold  wind  bloweth.  and  for  pity's  sake 
His  eyes  divine  were  dim  ;  but,  creeping 

close, 

Within  the  shadow  of  a  shatter'd  column, 
He  gazed  and  gazed.     And  lo,  the  sight  he 

saw 
Was  full  of  sorrow  only  eyes  divine 


Could  see  and  bear.  Upon  the  altar-stone 
Lay  stretched  naked  and  most  marble  white 
That  gentle  virgin,  with  the  slayer's  mar 
Across  her  throat,  her  red  mouth  open  wic 
And  two  great  sightless  orbs  upraised 

heaven, 

And  he  who  clung  unto  her,  like  a  hawk 
With  wings  outstretch'd,  and  dim  dil 

eyes 

Feeding  upon  the  sorrow  of  her  face, 
Was  he  whom  Balder  o'er  the  world 

sought 
And  had  not  found.     Ne'er  yet,  by  sea 

shore, 

Not  ev'n  within  the  silence  of  the  woods 
When  his  sad  eyes  beheld  him  first  of  old, 
Had  Balder  to  that  spirit  terrible 
E'er  crept  so  nigh  or  seen  its  shape  so  well 
Shadow  it  seem'd,  and  yet  corporeal, 
But  thro'  the  filmy  substance  of  its  frame 
The  blood-red  light  of  midnight  penetrated  ; 
And  dreadfully  with  dreadful  loveliness 
The  features  changed  their  shining  linea- 
ments, 
Now  lamb-like,  wolf-like  now,  now  like  a 

maid's 
Scarce  blossom'd,  now  deep-wrinkled  like  a 

man's, 

Now  beautiful  and  awful  like  a  god's, — 
But  never  true  to  each  similitude 
Longer  than  one  quick  heart-beat 

Thus  it  hung, 

So  fascinated  by  the  form  it  watch'd, 
It  saw  not,  heard  not,  stirr'd  not,  though 

the  birds 

Shriek'd  wildly  overhead.    Ev'n  as  one  cast 
Into  a  trance  mesmeric,  it  prolong'd 
The  famine  of  its  gaze  until  its  face 
Was  fixed  as  a  star.     Then  Ydun  crept 
Close  unto  Balder,  whispering,  '  Remember 
That  rune  I  read  thee  !  touch  him  in  his 

trance, 

And  name  him  by  his  mystic  human  name, 
And  as  I  live  his  lips  shall  answer  thee 
In  hui.ian  speech  ! '     So  speaking,  Ydun 

smiled 

And  vanish'd,  leaving  Balder  all  alone 
To  look  and  watch  and  wait.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  Then  on  his  soul, 
Beholding  that  great  trance  of  Death,  there 


BALDER   AND   DEATH. 


467 


Most  fatal  fascination.     For  a  space 
He  could  not  stir.     Upon  the  sacred  grove 
Lay  darkness  ;  only  on  the  altar  stone 
The  naked  victim  glimmer' d  beautiful, 
And  terrible  above  her  linger'd  Death  ; — 
When  suddenly  beyond    the    snow-white 

peak 
Rose  round  and  luminous  and  yellow  as 

gold 
The  full-orb'd  moon  ;  by  slow  degrees  its 

beams 
Stole    down  the  shrouded  mountains,  till 

they  fell 

Prone  on  the  altar,  turning  all  things  there 
To  brightness  :— so  that  Death  himself  was 

changed 

From  purple  into  silvern ; — that  dead  maid 
To  silvern  too  from  marble ; — the  great 

grove, 

With  all  the  columns  looming  black  therein, 
New-lit  with  lunar  dawn.  Then  as  the  light 
Touch'd  and  illumed  him,  for  a  moment 

Death 

Stirr'd,  ev'n  as  one  that  stirreth  from  a  sleep, 
And  trembled,  looking  upward ;  and  behold  ! 
His  face  grew  beautiful  thro'  golden  hair, 
His  eyes  dim  heavenly  blue,  and  all  hislooks 
Strange  and  divinely  young  !  .  .  . 

.  .  .  Then,  ere  that  trance 
Was  wholly  shaken  from  him,  Balder  rose, 
And  crept  unto  the  altar  with  no  sound  ; 
And  ere  the  shape  could  stir  or  utter  cry, 
He  clutch'd  him  with  one  quick  and  eager 

hand  ; 

And  tho'  his  hand  was  frozen  as  it  touch' d, 
Ere  Death  could  fly  he  gazed  into  his  eyes 
And  named  him  by  his  mystic  human  name. 
.  .  .  And  Death  gazed  back  with  looks  so 

terrible, 

They  would  have  wither'd  any  living  man  ; 
But  Balder  only  smiled  and  wove  his  rune, — 
And  in  a  little  space  the  shape  was  charm'd, 
Looking  and  listening  in  a  nameless  fear. 


BALDER  AND  DEATH. 

'  O  Death,  pale  Death,  thro'  many  a  lonely 
land 

My  feet  have  follow'd  thee  ; 
Sisters  and  brothers  stricken  by  thy  hand 

Oft  have  I  stoop' d  to  see : 


'  To  kiss  the  little  children  on  their  biers 

So  innocent  and  sweet, 
To  bless  the  old  men  wearied  out  with  years 

Wrapt  in  thy  winding-sheet. 

1  To  look  into  thine  eyes,  to  drink  thy  breath, 
I  have  cried  with  a  weary  cry  : 

Prayers  I  have  said  to  the  great  gods,  O 

Death, 
While  thou  hast  darken'd  by. 

'  Thy  mark  is  on  the  flower  and  on  the  tree, 
And  on  the  beast  and  the  bird, 

Thy  shade  is  on  the  mountains,  even  the  sea 
By  thy  sad  foot  is  stirred. 

1  Slayer  thou  art  of  all  my  soul  deems  fair, 

Thou  saddenest  the  sun, — 
Of  all  things  on  the  earth  and  in  the  air, 

O  Death,  thou  sparest  none. 

'  And  therefore  have  I  sought  with  prayers 
and  sighs 

To  speak  with  thee  a  space  ! ' 
Bright  Balder  in  the  hollow  rayless  eyes 

Look'd  with  a  fearless  face. 

The  phantom  darken'd  'neath  the  clay  cold 

moon 

And  seem'd  to  shrink  in  woe, 
But  Balder  named  his  name  and  wove  the 

rune, 
And  would  not  let  him  go. 

'  O    Death !    pale   Death !    thou    hast    a 

lovelier  name, 

Who  gave  that  name  to  thee  ? 
By  the  high  gods,  by  that  from  which  they 

came, 
Thy  mouth  must  answer  me ! ' 

Death  answer'd  not,  but  mystically  bright, 

His  shadowy  features  grew, 
And  on  his  brow  the  chilly  lamps  of  night 

Sprinkled  their  glistening  dew  , 

And  Balder  wonder'd,  for  those  lights  above 
Seem'd  shining  down  on  him, 

And  Death's  pale  face  grew  as  the  face  of 

Love, 
Yet  more  divinely  dim. 

'  O  Death,  pale  Death  ! 

Who  gave  thee  that  sweet  name, 
Yet  sent  thee  down  to  slay  poor  things  of 

breath, 

And  turn  men's  hearts  to  flame? 
H  H  a 


468 


BALDER    THE  BEAUTIFUL. 


'  Who  gave  thee  life  and  cast  thy  lot  below 
With  those  sad  slaying  eyes?' 

Death  pointed  with  a  hand  as  white  as  snow 
Up  to  the  moonlit  skies. 

'  Who  sent  thee  here  where  men  and  beasts 

have  birth  ? ' 

Death  trembled  and  was  still. 
'  What  drew  thee  down  on  my  beloved 

Earth, 
To  wither  up  and  kill?' 

Death  answer'd  not,  but  pointed  once  again 

Up  thro'  the  starry  shine  ; 
And  Balder  question'd  with  a  quick  new 
pain, 

' My  kin  ?  the  gods  divine? 

Death  answer'd  not,  but  gazed  on  Balder 
now 

With  strange  and  questioning  gleam — 
His  eyes  were  soft  in  sorrow  and  his  brow 

Was  wonderful  with  dream. 

'  Speak  to  me,  brother,  if  thou  art  not  dumb ; 

Speak  to  my  soul,  O  Death  ! ' 
The  thin  lips  flutter,  but  no  answer  hath 
come, 

No  sigh,  no  sound,  no  breath. 

Yet  on  the  brow  of  Death  there  lives  a  light 
Like  starlight  shed  on  snow, 

The  fatal  face  grows  beautiful  and  bright 
With  some  celestial  woe. 

And  round  the  shadowy  cheeks  there  softly 

swim 

Thin  threads  of  silken  hair, 
And  Balder  sees  the  form  world-worn  and 

dim 
Hath  once  been  young  and  fair. 

And  as  they  sit  together  in  the  night, 
Hand  in  hand,  mingling  breath, 

The  fingers  white  of  the  cold  starry  light 
Smooth  the  sad  hair  of  Death. 


'O  DEATH,  PALE  DEATH.' 

•  O  Death  !  pale  Death  ! 

Thy  hair  is  golden,  not  gray — 
In  the  dark  mirrors  of  thine  eyes,  O  Death, 

Lie  glimmering  dreams  of  day. 


'  O  gentle  Death  ! 

Thy  hand  is  warm,  not  chill, — 
Thy  touch  is  soft  and  living,  and  thy  breath 

Sweet,  with  no  power  to  kill. 

'  I  love  thee,  Death,  for  that  great  heavenly 
brow 

Still  dark  from  love's  eclipse — 
And  lo  !  a  hundredfold  I  hunger  now 

To  hear  thy  living  lips. 

'  O  gentle  Death  ! 

Speak,  that  mine  ears  may  hear.' 
Then  like  a  fountain  rose  the  voice  of  Death, 

Low,  sweet,  and  clear  ! 

IV. 
DEATH  SINGS. 

'  I  know  not  whence  my  feet  have  come, 
Nor  whither  they  must  go — 

Lonely  I  wander,  dark  and  dumb, 
In  summer  and  in  snow. 

'  For  on  mine  eyes  there  falls  a  gleam, 
That  keeps  them  dim  and  blind, 

Of  strange  eternities  of  dream 
Before  me  and  behind  ; 

And  ever,  ever  as  I  pace 

Along  my  lonely  track, 

The  light  retires  before  my  face, 

Advancing  at  my  back  ; 

'  But  ever,  ever  if  I  turn 

And  would  my  steps  retrace, 

Close  to  my  back  that  light  doth  burn, 
But  flies  before  my  face. 

'  I  close  mine  eyes,  I  fain  would  sleep, 

I  rest  with  folded  wing, 
Or  on  my  weary  way  I  creep 

Like  any  harmless  thing. 

'  Yet  day  by  day,  from  land  to  land, 

From  gentle  fold  to  fold, 
I  pass,  and  lo,  my  cruel  hand 

Leaves  all  things  calm  and  cold. 

1  Man  marketh  with  his  bitterest  moan 

My  shadow  sad  and  dim  ; 
Of  all  things  hateful,  I  alone 

Am  hatefullest  to  him  ! 

'  Ay  me,  a  brand  is  on  my  brow, 
A  fire  is  in  my  breast, — . 


BALDER  AND  DEATH. 


469 


Ever  my  bitter  breath  doth  bow 
Those  flowers  I  love  the  best. 

'  i  crouch  beside  the  cradled  child, 

I  look  into  it-3  eyes, 
I  love  to  watch  its  slumber  mild 

As  quietly  it  lies. 

'  I  dare  not  touch  it  with  my  hand, 

Or  creep  too  close  to  see, 
Yet  for  a  little  space  I  stand 

And  mark  it,  silently, 

1  Ah,  little  dream  pale  human  things, 

At  rest  beneath  the  skies, 
How,  as  they  sleep,  with  gentle  wings 

I  shade  their  cheeks  and  eyes  ! 

'  The  maiden  with  her  merry  laugh, 
The  babe  with  its  faint  cry, 

The  old  man  leaning  on  his  staff, 
Are  mine,  and  these  must  die. 

'  I  touch  them  softly  with  my  hand, 

They  turn  as  still  as  stone, 
Then  looking  in  their  eyes  I  stand 

Until  their  light  hath  flown. 

'  I  set  faint  gleams  around  their  lips, 
I  smooth  their  brows  and  hair, 

I  place  within  their  clay-cold  grips 
The  lilies  of  despair. 

'  And  verily  when  they  bear  them  forth 

I  follow  with  the  rest ; 
But  when  their  bones  are  in  the  earth 

My  gentle  task  is  best. 

'  For  there  I  sit  with  head  bent  low 

For  many  a  dreamy  day, 
And  watch  the  grass  and  flowers  grow 

Out  of  the  changing  clay. 

1 0  think  of  this  and  blame  not  me, 
Thou  with  the  eyes  divine — 

A  Shadow  creeps  from  sea  to  sea, 
Stranger  than  thine  or  mine. 

1  Who  made  the  white  bear  and  the  seal  ? 

The  eagle  and  the  lamb  ? 
As  these  am  I — I  live  and  feel — 

ONE  made  me,  and  I  am.' 


Then  Balder  lifted  up  his  voice  and  cried, 
Placing  his  fingers  on  Death's  heavenly  hair, 
4  Lo,  I  absolve  thee ! '  and  the  Spirit  crouch'd 
In  silence,  looking  up  with  wondering  gaze 
At  that  immortal  brightness  blessing  him 
With  holy  imposition  of  white  hands. 
For  beautiful  beyond  all  dream,  and  bright 
Beyond  all  splendour  of  the  summer  Earth, 
Divine,  with  aureole  around  his  head, 
God-like,  yet  fairer  far  than  any  god, 
Stood  Balder,  like  a  thing  that  could  not  die! 
Upon  his  face  the  countless  eyes  of  heaven 
Gazed,  with  their  own  exceeding  lustre  dim  ; 
And  moonlight  hung  around  him  like  a  veil 
Through  which  his  glory  trembled  para- 
mount ; 
And  dim  sheen  showering  from  a  thousand 

worlds, 

Mingling  with  moisture  of  the  nether-air, 
Touch'd  his  soft  body  with  baptismal  dews. 

Then  far  away  in  the  remotest  north, 
Cloud-like  and  dark  and  scarce  distinguish- 
able, 

The  clustering  faces  of  the  gods  look'd  down. 
And  Balder  cried,  '  Lo,  I  have  ranged  the 

Earth, 
And  found  it  good  ;  yea,  hills  and  vales  and 

streams, 

Forests  and  seas,  all  good  and  beautiful ; 
And  I  have  gazed  in  eyes  of  birds  and  beasts, 
And  in  the  gentle  orbs  of  mortal  men, 
And  seen  in  all  the  light  of  that  dim  dream 
Which  grew  within  my  soul  when  I  was  born. 
Only  this  thing  is  bitter,  O  ye  gods, 
Most  dark  and  bitter  :  that  eternal  Death 
Sits  by  his  sad  and  silent  sea  of  graves, 
Singing  a  song  that  slays  the  hopes  of  men. 
Yet  lo,  I  gaze  into  the  eyes  of  Death, 
And  they  are  troubled  with  that  self-same 
dream. 

'  O  gods,  on  you  I  cry  not,  but  I  cry 
On  him,  the  Father,  who  has  fashion'd  Death 
To  be  the  sorrow  of  created  things, 
And  set  this  ceaseless  hunger  in  his  heart 
To  wither  up  and  kill.     Oh,  I  have  wept 
Till  all  my  heart  is  weary,  and  no  voice 
Makes  answer.     By  thy  servant  Death,  O 

God, 
By  him  whom  I  have  sought  and  found  in 

pair*, 


470 


BALDER    THE   BEAUTIFUL. 


Listen  ! — Uplift  this  shadow  from  the  Earth, 

And  gladly  will  I  die  as  sacrifice, 

And  all  the  gentle  things  I  love  shall  live. 

Far,  far  away  in  the  remotest  north 
A  white  face  in  the  darkness  of  a  cloud 
Gleam'd.     Thither,     crouching     low     at 

Raider's  feet, 

Death  pointed  with  his  skeleton  finger  fix'd, 
Silent.     Then,  even  as  a  snow-white  lamb 
That  on  the  altar  cometh  with  no  fear 
But  looks  around  with  eager  innocent  eyes, 
God  Balder  on  the  stone  of  sacrifice 
Leapt,  reaching  arms  up  heavenward  1 

.  .  .  And  he  pray'd. 

VI. 

THE  LAST  PRAYER. 

'  Father  in  heaven,  my  dream  is  over, 

Father  in  heaven,  my  day  is  dark, — . 
I  sat  in  the  sun  and  I  sang  like  a  lover 

Who  sings  sweet  songs  for  a  maid  to  mark ; 
And  the  light  was  golden  upon  my  hair, 
And  the  heavens  were  blue  and  the  Earth 

was  fair, 
And  I  knew  no  touch  of  a  human  care, 

And  I  bless'd  thy  name,  my  Father  ! 
I  sang,  and  the  clarion  winds  blew  clear, 
And  the  lilies  rose  like  lamps  on  the  mere, 
And  all  the  night  in  the  balmy  light 
I  lifted  up  my  hands  snow-white, 

And  the  stars  began  to  gather  1 

'  Father,  Father,  which  art  in  heaven, 

Lord  of  men  and  master  of  Earth. 
The  rune  was  woven  of  colours  seven, 

And  out  of  thy  being  I  had  birth  ; 
As  a  snowdrop  wakes  on  the  naked  ground, 
And  opens  its  eye  without  a  sound 
While  the  winds  are  murmuring  around, 

I  woke  on  the  green  Earth's  bosom  ; 
And  I  heard  a  cry,  as  the  storks  went  by 
Sailing  northward  under  the  sky, 
And  aery  from  the  mountains  answer'd  loud, 
And  the  cataract  leapt  like  a  corpse  from 
its  shroud, 

And  the  sward  began  to  blossom. 

1  White  clouds  passed  over  with  low  sweet 

thunder, 

Shaking  downward  the  silvern  dew, 
The  soft  sods  trembled  and  fell  asunder, 
And  the  emerald   flame    of   the    grass 
gleam'd  thro', 


And  the  fire  of  the  young  boughs  overhead 
Ran  green  and  amber,  golden  and  red, 
And  the  flashing  lamps  of  the  leaves  were  fed 

At  the  torch  of  the  flaming  sunshine  : 
Beautiful,  wrapt  in  a  blissful  dream, 
Lay  mere   and    mountain,   meadow   and 

stream  ; 

And  beautiful,  when  the  light  was  low, 
Creeping  white  through  the  after  glow, 

The  starshine  and  the  moonshine ! 

4  Father,  Father,  hearken  unto  me, 

Then  work  thy  will  on  the  world  and  me — 
I  walk'd  the  world,   and  the  glad  world 
knew  me, 

And  my  feet  were  kissed  by  thy  slave  the 

Sea. 

And  ever  with  every  happy  hour, 
My  love  grew  deeper  for  tree  and  flower, 
For  the  beast  in  the  brake,  for  the  bird  in 
the  bower, 

And  the  deer  on  the  white  high  places. 
But  ere  my  golden  dream  was  done, 
I  saw  thy  Shadow  across  the  sun, 
I  saw  thy  Shadow  that  all  men  see, 
On  beast  and  bird,  on  flower  and  tree, 

And  the  flower-sweet  human  faces  ! 

'  The  flower-sweet  faces  of  mortal  races 

Blossoming  sadly  under  the  sky  I 
I  saw  my  dream  on  those  fading  faces, 

I  heard  my  voice  in  their  failing  cry. 
Out  of  the  soil  and  into  the  sun 
Their  souls  were  stirring  as  mine  had  done, 
Their  dooms  were  written,  their  threads 
were  spun, 

By  the  hands  of  the  immortals  ; 
They  rose  in  a  dream  and  they  lookt  around, 
They  saw  their  shadows  upon  the  ground, 
And  wherever  they  went  beneath  the  blue 
The  darker  Shadow' thy  Spirit  threw 

From  the  great  sun's  shining  portals. 

'  Thou  hadst  taken  clay  and  hadst  made  it 

human, 

Blown  in  its  nostrils  and  lent  it  breath, 
Thou  hadst  kindled  the  beauty  of  man  and 

woman, 
To  hunt  them  down  with  thy  bloodhound, 

Death. 

They  did  not  crave  to  be  born  or  be, 
Yet  thou  gavest  them  eyes  that  their  souls 

might  see, 


BALDER  AND  DEATH. 


47* 


And  thou  hatest  them  as  thou  hatest  me 

And  the  Earth  thy  godhead  bearing. 
They  shrink  and  tremble  before  thy  hand, 
They  ask  and  they  do  not  understand, 
They  bid  thee  pity  who  pitiest  none, 
And  they  name  thy  name,  as  I,  thy  Son, 
Now  name  it,  still  despairing. 

'  Father,  Father,  which  art  in  heaven, 

Why  hast  thou  fashion'd  my  brethren  so  ? 
Form'd  of  fare,  with  the  dust  for  leaven, 

As  thou  hast  made  them,  they  come  and 

go. 

Yet  ever  thy  hand  is  on  their  hair 
To  seize  and  to  slay  them  unaware, 
And  ever  their  faces  are  pale  with  prayer 

As  round  thy  fanes  they  gather.  .  .  . 
Thou  askest  blood  and  they  give  thee  life 
With  sweep  of  the  sacrificial  knife  ; 
Thou  seekest  praise  and  they  give  thee  pain, 
And  their  altars  smoke  with  the  crimson  rain 

Thou  lovest,  O  my  Father  ! 

'  Father,  Father,  'tis  sad  to  falter 

Out  of  the  light  and  into  the  dark, 
Like  a  wreath  of  smoke  from  a  burning  altar 

To  fade  and  vanish  where  none  may  mark. 
But  O  my  Father,  'tis  blest  to  be 
A  part  of  the  joy  of  the  land  and  sea, 
To  upleap  like  a  lamb,  to  be  glad  and  free 

As  the  stream  of  a  running  river. 
Could'st  thou  not  spare  them  a  longer  space 
With  sweeter  meed  of  a  surer  grace? 
Could'st  thou  not  love  the  light  that  lies 
On  happy  fields  and  in  human  eyes, 

And  let  it  shine  for  ever? 

'  I  hear  thy  voice  from  the  void  of  heaven, 

It  thunders  back  and  it  answers  ' '  Nay  " — 
The  rune  was  woven  of  colours  seven 

For  me,  thy  Son,  and  for  things  of  clay. 
Then  mark  me  now  as  I  rise  and  swear, 
By  the  beasts  in  the  brake,  by  the  birds  in 

the  air, 
By  Earth,  by  all  those  forces  fair 

Which  mingled  in  my  making  ; 
By  men  and  women  who  stand  supreme 
Proud  and  pale  with  mine  own  soul's  dream, 
I  will  drink  the  cup  their  lips  partake  ! 
I  will  share  their  lot,  while  their  sad  hearts 
break 

As  mine,  thy  Son's,  is  breaking  ! 


'  Father  in  heaven,  my  heart  is  human, 

I  cast  a  shade  like  a  human  thing, 
Grant  me  the  doom  of  man  and  woman  ; 

From  the  Earth  I  came,  to  the  Earth  I 

cling. 

Behold  who  standeth  at  my  side  ! 
Even  Death,  thy  servant  heavenly  eyed — 
I  will  die,  as  the  children  of  men  have  died, 

To  the  sound  of  his  sad  singing. 
Behold,  I  look  in  the  face  of  Death, 
I  look  in  his  eyes  and  I  drink  his  breath  ; 
The  chill  light  brightens  upon  his  brow, 
He  creepeth  close  and  he  smileth  now, 

His  cold  arms  round  me  flinging. 

1  Father,  Father,  bend  down  and  hearken, 

And  place  thy  hand  upon  my  hair  ; 
Ere  yet  I  wither,  ere  yet  I  darken, 

Hear  me  murmur  a  last  low  prayer. 
As  the  blood  of  a  sacrifice  is  shed, 
Let  me  die  in  my  brethren's  stead — 
Let  me  die  ;  but  when  I  am  dead, 

Call  back  thy  Death  to  heaven  ! 
Ay  me,  my  Father,  if  this  may  be, 
I  will  go  with  a  prayer  for  him  and  thee, 
I  will  pass  away  without  a  cry, 
Blessing  and  praising  thee  under  the  sky, 

Forgiving  and  forgiven. 

' .  .  .  .  Father,  Father,  my  dream  is  over — 

He  folds  me  close,  and  I  cannot  see  ; 
Yet  I  shall  sleep  like  a  quiet  lover 

If  my  boon  is  granted  and  this  may  be. 
O  sweet  it  is  if  I  may  rest 
Asleep  on  my  foster-mother's  breast, 
If  over  my  grave  the  flowers  blow  best 

And  happy  mortals  gather. 
Yet  Father,  tho'  darkness  shrouds  my  face, 
Remember  me  for  a  little  space, 
Remember,  remember,  and  forgive 
Thy  Son  who  dies  that  men  may  live.  .  .  . 

Accept  me,  O  my  Father  ! ' 

V.      VII. 

THE  FIRST  SNOWFLAKE— FALLING  OF 
THE  SNOW. 

He  ceased  ;  no  voice  replied  ;  but  round 

his  frame 

Cold  arms  were  woven,  and  his  golden  head 
Droop'd    like    a    lily    on    the    breast    of 

Death.  .  .  . 
Then  suddenly  a  darkness  like  a  veil 


472 


BALDER  THE  BEAUTIFUL. 


Was  drawn  across  the  silent  void  of  Heaven, 
Starlight  and  moonlight  faded  mystically, 
And  save  for  Balder's  face,  that  as  a  star 
Still  flash'd  in  pallor  on  the  face  of  Death, 
There  was  no  light  at  all.  .  .  . 

Then  Balder  cried, 

'  Lo,  he  hath  answer'd ;  I  am  thine,  O  Death  ; 
Now  let  me  look  into  thy  loving  eyes, 
And  ere  I  rest,  sing  low  to  me  again.' 
Shivering  he  spake,   and  sank  upon  the 

ground  ; 

But  Death  stoop' d  down  above  him  as  he  lay, 
And  took  the  shining  head  into  his  lap, 
And  smooth'd  with  fingers  cold  the  silken 

hair, 
And  murmur'd  Balder's  name  with  singing 

lips 

Soft  as  the  whisper  of  a  wind  in  June. 
•  O  Death,  white  Death,  all  is  so  cold  and 

dark, 

I  cannot  see  the  shining  of  thy  face  ! ' 
Then  touching  Balder's  lips,  Death  answer'd 

low, 

•Thy  day  is  ended — thou  wilt  see  no  more  — 
Sleep,  sleep ! '  .  .  . 

.  .  .  But  what  is  this  that  wavers  slowly 
Out  of  that  purple  blackness  overhead  ? 
Is  it  a  blossom  from  the  silvern  boughs 
O'ershadowing  the  azure  pools  of  heaven  ? 
Or  feather  from  the  plume  of  some  sweet  star 
That  ever  moveth  magically  on 
From  mansion  unto  mansion  of  the  sky  ? 
Soft  as  a  bloom  from  the  white  hawthorn 

spray 

It  wavers  earthward  thro'  the  starless  dark, 
Unseen,  unfelt,  until  it  gains  the  light 
Which  Balder  breathes  around  him  as  he  lies. 
There,  as  a  white  moth  hovers  in  the  moon, 
It  floats  and  gleams,  then  sinking  softly 

down, 

Falls  as  a  seal  on  Balder's  shining  brow 
And  melts  away. 

' .  .  .  O  Death,  upon  mine  eyes, 
And  on  my  brow,  I  feel  a  touch  like  dew, 
Like  cold  dew  shaken  from  a  morning  cloud. 
Look  heavenward— seest  thou  aught  of  the 

great  gods, 

Or  God  my  Father  ? '  But  the  form  replied1, 
1  On  heaven  and  in  the  air  'tis  night,  deep 

night ; 


No  shape  is  seen,  no  star,  nor  any  light. 
Sleep,  Balder,  sleep  ! ' 

Then  bending  low  he  kissed 
The  lips  of  Balder,  yea  with  kisses  calm 
He  drew  sweet  Balder's  breath,  and  lo  !  he 

shone 

Brighter  and  brighter  with  the  life  he  drank. 
But  Balder  darken'd  ever  and  grew  cold. 
'  O  Death,  I  feel  thee  smiling  in  a  dream 
Serene  and  still  and  very  beautiful — 
But  ah,   thy  lips  are  chill ! '    and   Death 

moan'd  low, 
Winding  his  thin  arms  tight  round  Balder's 

frame, 
'  Sleep,  sleep  ! ' 

.  .  .  O  what  are  these  that  waver  slowly 
Out  of  the  purple  blackness  overhead? 
Soft  as  that  first  white  blossom  blown  from 

heaven, 

Faltering  downward  thro'  the  rayless  dark, 
They  come,  they  gather,  falling  flake  on  flake 
With  silvern  lapse  and  silent  interchange, 
Hovering  in  soft  descent  as  if  they  lived. 
Upon  the  drooping  head  of  Death  they  fall 
Like  lightly  shaken  leaves,  and  looking  up 
He  sees  the  black  air  troubled  into  life 
Of  multitudinous  waifs  that  wander  down. 
There  is  no  sound — only  the  solemn  hush 
Of  mystic  motions  and  invisible  wings  ; 
There  is  no  lamp,  no  star  ;  but  lo  !  the  air 
Is  glimmering  dimly  with  the  faint  wan  light 
Shed  from  the  blossoms  as  they  melt  and 

fade. 

'  Under  green  boughs,  under  green  boughs, 

O  Death, 

Thou  hast  borne  me,  and  I  see  not,  but  I  hear 
The  tremor  of  the  soft  trees  overhead, 
A  sound  like  fountains  flowing,  and  a  touch 
Like  cool  leaves  shaken  on  mine  eyes  and 

hair  ! ' 

And   Balder  stirred  his  gentle  head  and 

smiled — 
Then  drew  one  last  long  breath,  and  sank 

to  sleep. 

'Tis  over  now — the  gods  may  gaze  in  peace — 
Balder  is  dead  1 

Ay  me,  the  light  hath  passed 
From  that  once  glorious  head  :  still  as  a 
stone 


$  ALDER  AND  DEATH  -THE   COMING  OF  THE  OTHER.    473 


It  lies,  not  shining,  in  the  lap  of  Death  ; 
The  hair  is  white,  the  eyes  are  glazed  and 

dim, 

There  is  no  red  upon  the  loving  lips, 
And  in  its  cage  the  singing  heart  lies  cold. 
Ah,  Death,  pale  Death,  thy  kisses  come  in 

vain. 
Close  thou  his  lids,  and  by  his  side  stretch 

down 

The  cold  white  marble  arms,  and  at  his  head 
Watch  like  a  mourner,  for  a  little  space. 

Death  sits  and  gazes  on  ;  but  lo,  his  looks 
Are  pale  as  Balder's.  ...  All  the  light  he 

wore 

Hath  faded,  and  his  orbs  are  rayless  now. 
Lifeless  he  looms  in  vigil  while  his  eyes 
Turn  upward  and  his  thin  cold  hand  still  lies 
Ev'n  as  a  frozen  stone  on  Balder's  heart. 
Thicker  and  thicker  from  the  folds  of  heaven 
The  floating  blooms  are  shaken  ;  lo,  the  waste 
Is  with  a  glittering  whiteness  carpeted, — 
While  still  o'erhead  in  ever-gathering  clouds, 
Drifting  from  out  the  vapours  of  the  dark, 
The  white  flakes  fall. 

O  wonder  of  the  snow  ! 
The  world's  round  ball  is  wrapt  in  crystal 

now, 
And  out  of  heaven  there  comes  a  freezing 

breath  ; 

And  nothing  stirs  or  lives ;  and  in  his  shroud 
Woven  by  frost's  swift  fingers,  Balder  lies, 
And  that  fair  face  which  made  creation  glad 
Is  fixed  as  a  rayless  mask  of  ice. 

Crouch  at  his  head,  O  Death  !  and  hour  b\ 

hour 
Watch  the  still  flakes  of  heaven  wavering 

down, 

Till  thou,  and  that  which  lieth  at  thy  feet, 
And  all  the  world,  are  clad  in  wondrous 

white ! 

VII. 
THE  COMING  OF  THE  OTHER. 

i. 
How  long  he  lay  in  that  strange  trance  o 

night 

Might  Balder  never  know  ; 
Silently  fell  the  waifs  of  stainless  white, 
And  deeper  grew  the  snow. 


While  out  of  heaven  the  falling  flakes  were 
shed, 

The  dark  hours  grew  to  days  ; 
And  round  and  round  a  red  moon  overhead 

Went  circling  without  rays. 

There  were  no  stars,  only  that  cheerless  thing 

Treading  the  wintry  round  ; 
There    was    no    light,   save    snow-flowers 
glimmering 

Without  a  sound. 

Darkness  of  doom  is  shed  on  Balder's  eyes, 
But  whiteness  shrouds  the  wold  ; 

<\nd  still  at  Balder's  head  the  phantom  lies 
Silent  and  calm  and  cold. 

And  chill  is  Balder  as  some  naked  man 

Made  marble  by  the  frost : 
His  veins  are  ice  ;  upon  his  bosom  wan 

His  two  thin  hands  are  crost. 

But  as  within  some  clammy  wall  of  stone 
The  death-watch  keeps  its  chime, — 

The  cold  heart  in  that  crouching  skeleton 
Ticks  out  the  time. 

All  round,  a  world  of  snow,  and  snows 
that  fall, 

Flake  upon  flake,  so  white  ; 
An  empty  heaven  fluttering  like  a  pall, 

Lit  by  that  one  red  light. 

All  round,  the  solemn  slumber  of  the  snow, 
No  sigh,  no  stir,  no  breath, — 

But  in  the  midst,  scarce  audible,  slow,  low, 
The  throbbing  pulse  of  Death.  .  .  . 

The  hours  creep  on,  the  dreary  days  are  shed, 

Measured  by  that  slow  beat ; 
And  all  the  while  god  Balder  lieth  dead, 

Wrapt  in  his  winding-sheet. 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  SNOW. 

O  Death,  Death,  press  thy  hand  so  lean 
and  bare 

Upon  thy  beating  heart ! 
O  Death,  raise  up  thy  head  and  scent  the  air 

With  nostrils  cold  apart ! 

Awaken  from  thy  trance,  O  Death,  and  rise, 
And  hearken  with  thine  ears  !  .  .  . 


474 


BALDER    THE  BEAUTIFUL. 


Death  stirs,  and  like  a  snake  with  glistening 

eyes 
His  luminous  head  uprears.  .  .  . 

Awaken  !  listen  !     Far  across  the  night, 

And  down  the  drifts  of  snow, 
There  stirs  a  lonely  light, — a  blood-red  light 

That  moveth  to  and  fro. 

Small  as  a  drop  of  dew,  most  dim  to  sight, 

It  glimmereth  afar.  .  .  . 
O  Death,  itcometh  hither,— growing  bright 

And  luminous  as  a  star. 

O  Death,  pale  Death, 

What  do  thine  eyes  behold  ? 
What  lonely  star  flasheth  afar 

Across  the  wintry  wold  ? 

The  world  is  folded  in  its  shroud  of  white  ; 

The  skies  are  smother' d  deep  ; 
There  is  no  lamp  at  all  in  heaven,  to  light 

Dead  Balder's  sleep. 

There  is  no  lamp  at  Balder's  head,  no  star 

Outlooking  from  the  cloud  ; 
White  is  the  snow-drift  woven  near  and  far, 

And  white  is  Balder's  shroud. 

O  death,  pale  Death,  across  the  lone  white 
land 

No  heavenly  rays  are  shed, — 
Yet  still  thou  gazest,  clutching  Balder's  hand, 

At  yonder  gleam  blood-red.  .  .  . 

It  crawleth  as  a  snail  along  the  ground, 

Still  far  and  faint  to  see, 
O  Death,  it  creepeth  surely,  with  no  sound, 

Across  the  night,  to  thee. 

O  gentle  Death, 

Why  dost  thou  crouch  so  low  ? 
A  star  it  seems,  a  star  that  travelleth 

From  snow  to  snow. 

Nearer  it  cometh,  and  across  the  night 

Its  beams  fall  crimson  red, 
The  drifts  beneath  it  glimmer  and   grow 
brijht 

Like  cheeks  lamp-lit  and  dead. 

O  gentle  Death, 

Hither  it  cometh  slow  ; — 
A  Shadow  creepeth  with  the  same,  O  Death 

Frjm  snow  to  snow. 


in. 
THE  FACE  AND  THE  VOICE. 

Nearer  and  nearer  o'er  the  waste  of  white 

It  steals,  and  doth  not  fade  : 
A  light,  and  in  the  glimmer  of  the  light 

A  form  that  casts  a  shade. 

Nearer  and  nearer,  till  Death's  eyes  behold 
A  semblance  strange  and  gray, 

A  silent  shape  that  stoopeth  and  doth  hold 
The  lamp  to  light  its  way. 

Bent  is  he  as  a  weary  snow-clad  bough, 

Gaunt  as  a  leafless  tree, 
But  glamour  of  moonlight  lies  upon  his 
brow, 

Most  strange  to  see  ! 

And  in  one  hand  a  silvern  lanthorn  swings 

Fill'd  with  a  crimson  light, 
And    round    his    frame    wind-blown    and 
shivering  clings 

A  robe  of  starry  white.  .  .  . 

O  Death,  pale  Death, 

Well  may  thy  cold  heart  beat ! 
The  form  that  comes  hath  pierced  hands, 
O  Death, 

And  bloody  pierced  feet. 

Slowly  he  crawleth  under  the  cold  skies, 

His  limbs  trail  heavy  as  lead, 
Pale  fixed  blue  his  eyes  are,  like  the  eyes 

Of  one  that  sleeps  stone-dead. 

Ay  me,  for  never  thro'  so  wan  a  wold 

Walk'd  one  so  sadly  fair — 
The  wild  snows  drift,  the  wind  blows  shrill 
and  cold, 

And  those  soft  feet  are  bare.  .  .  . 

O  who  is  this  that  walketh  the  wintry  night, 

With  naked  hands  and  feet ! 
O  who  is  this  that  beareth  a  blood-red  light, 

And  weareth  a  winding-sheet ! 

The  night  is  still,  no  living  thing   makes 

moan ; 

Silent  the  cold  skies  loom  ;  — 
But  hark  !   what  voice  is   this,  so   faintly 

blown 
Across  the  gloom  ? 


THE    COMING   OF   THE   OTHER. 


475 


•Balder!  Balder!' 

Hush  !  that  cry  ! 
The  form  stands  white  i'  the  chilly  night, 

Holding  its  lamp  on  high. 

'  Palder  !  Balder  ! 

Where  art  thou  ? ' 
The  snow  smooths  still  with  fingers  chill 

Dead  Balder's  brow. 

0  gentle  Death, 

What  voice  is  this  that  cries  ? 
What  sad  shape  stands  with  lifted  hands 
Alone  under  the  skies  ? 

'  Balder  !  O  Balder  ! 

Answer  me ! ' 

He  stands  and  softly  sighs, 
And  vacant  are  his  eyes 

As  if  they  cannot  see  ! 

Yet  in  the  weary  gloom  full  faint  they  glow, 

And  fix  themselves  at  last — 
He  sees  dead  Balder  sleeping  in  the  snow, 

And  thither  he  fleeteth  fast ! 

He  comes  now  swifter  than  a  bark 
Which  bitter  tempests  blow, — 

Dreadful  he  flashes  down  the  dark, 
With  black  prints  on  the  snow  ! 

1  Wake,  Balder !  wake  ! ' 

His  voice  calls  now — 
The  shrill  cry  circles  like  a  snake 
Round  Balder's  brow ! 

Oh,  who  is  this  th  it  walketh  the  wintry  night 

WTith  naked  hands  and  feet  ? 
O  who  is  this  that  beareth  a  blood-red  light 

And  weareth  a  winding-sheet? 

There  is  a  gleam  upon  his  brow  and  hair 

Ev'n  as  of  luminous  hands, 
Swiftly  he  comes  to  Balder's  side,  and  there 

He  stands  ! 

And  Death  crawls  moaning  from  his  snowy 

seat 

To  grasp  his  raiment  hem, 
And  toucheth  with  his  mouth  the  pierced 

feet, 
Yea,  softly  kisseth  them. 

O  Death  !  pale  Death  ! 

He  gazeth  down  on  thee — 
His  smile  is  like  no  smile  of  thing  of  breath, 

Yet  is  it  sweet  to  see. 


He  lifts  the  lamp— and  lo !  its  red  rays 
glance 

On  Balder's  sleeping  eyes — 
'  Balder  !  O  Balder  !  from  thy  trance 

Arise  !'.... 

Strange  flash'd  the  wondrous  ray 

Aslant  the  silent  snows  ; 
Death  waii'd — and  slowly,  gaunt  and  gray, 

Dead  Balder  rose  ! 


1  WAKE,  BALDER  !  WAKE  ! ' 

Silent  rose  Balder,  ev'n  as  one 

Who  wakens  from  a  swoon, 
Turning  his  head  from  side  to  side 

In  the  red  wintry  moon. 

Wrapt  in  his  winding-sheet  of  snow 

He  loom'd  in  the  dim  light, 
And  marble-pale  his  cold  cheeks  gleam'd 

Under  his  locks  of  white. 

1  Wake,  Balder  !  wake  ! '  the  strange  voice 
cried  ; 

Dead  Balder  woke  and  heard, 
And  turn'd  his  face  to  his  who  spake, 

Shiv'ring,  but  said  no  word. 

I  Wake,  Balder  !  wake  ! '  the  strange  voice 

cried  ; 

And  Balder  woke  and  knew, — 
And  lo  !  upon  his  lips  and  hair 
A  golden  glimmer  grew  ! 

O  who  art  thou  with  blessed  voice, 

Who  biddest  my  heart  beat  ? 
And  wherefore  hast  thou  waken'd  me 

From  sleep  so  heavenly  sweet  ? ' 

Then  answer'd  back  that  tall  still  form, 

In  a  clear  voice  and  low, 
Stretching  his  arms  and  brightening, 

White-robed,  and  pale  as  snow. 

'  I  am  thine  elder  Brother 

Come  from  beyond  the  sea  ; 
For  many  a  weary  night  and  day 

I  have  been  seeking  thee  ! ' 

Oh,  Balder's  cheeks  are  shining  bright, 
And  smiles  are  on  his  face — 

I 1  dream'd,  and  saw  one  with  a  lamp 
Passing  from  place  to  place. 


BALDER    THE  BEAUTIFUL. 


'  And  ever,  as  he  wander'd  on, 

Softly  he  cried  to  me — 
Art  thou  mine  elder  Brother? 

Then  shall  my  lips  kiss  thee  ! ' 

'  I  am  thine  elder  Brother, 

Come  from  beyond  the  sea  ; 
Balder,  my  brother  Balder, 

Kiss  thou  me  ! ' 

Death  moans,  and  crouching  on  the  snow 

Uplooketh  with  eyes  dim, 
For  Balder  on  his  brother's  breast 

Hath  fallen,  kissing  him. 

'  Thou  art  mine  elder  Brother, 

The  risen  Balder  cries  ; 
1 1  know  thee  by  thy  gentle  voice 

And  by  thy  tearful  eyes. 

1  Thou  art  mine  elder  Brother, 
Most  heavenly  sad  and  sweet, 

Yet  wherefore  hast  thou  pierced  hands 
And  naked  pierced  feet  ? 

'  O  wherefore  are  thy  cheeks  so  chill, 

Thy  lips  so  cold  and  blue, 
And  wherefore  com'st  thou  in  thy  shroud, 

As  if  arisen  too  ? ' 

The  white  Christ  smiled  in  Balder's  face, 

But  softly  his  tears  ran — 
'  Like  thee  I  lived,  like  thee  I  loved, 

And  died,  like  thee,  for  Man.' 

v. 

THE  BIRTH  AND  DEATH. 

The  white  Christ  cried,  and  on  the  air 

His  voice  like  music  rang, 
And  Balder  listen1  d  silently 

As  if  an  angel  sang. 

•Out  of  the  dark  Earth  was  I  born, 

Under  the  shining  blue, 
And  to  a  human  height  I  rose, 

And  drank  the  light,  and  grew. 

•  The  land  was  beauteous  where  I  dwelt, 

A  still  and  silent  land, 
Where  little  pools  of  heaven  fall 
And  gleam  'mid  wastes  of  sand. 

•  I  loved  the  bright  beasts  of  the  earth, 

And  birds  both  great  and  small ; 
I  loved  all  God  made  beautiful. 
But  mortals  most  of  all. 


'  For  on  their  faces  framed  of  clay, 

And  in  their  eyes  divine, 
I  saw  the  shadow  of  the  dream 

Which  nightly  sadden'd  mine. 

1  But  when  I  knew  their  days  were  dark, 

And  all  their  spirits  sore, 
Because  of  this  same  silent  Death 

Creeping  from  door  to  door, 

'  I  raised  my  hands  to  heaven  and  cried 

On  him  that  fashion'd  me, 
My  Father  dear  who  dwells  in  heaven, 

And  suffers  Death  to  be. 

'  And  sweet  and  low  this  answer  came 

Out  of  the  quiet  sky — 
All  that  is  beautiful  shall  abide, 

A II  that  is  base  shall  die  ! 

'  Take  thou  thy  cross  and  bear  it  well. 
And  seek  my  servant  Death  : 

Thou  too  shalt  -wither  like  a  flower 
Before  his  bitterest  breath. 

'  Yea,  thou  thalt  slumber  in  his  arms 
Three  nights  and  days,  and  then, 

With  that  cold  kiss  upon  thy  lips, 
Awaken  once  again  I 

'  And  when  thou  wakenest  at  last 

Thy  work  is  yet  undone, 
For  thou  shalt  roam  the  Earth,  and  seek 

Thy  Brethren  one  by  one  ! 

1  Yea,  one  by  one  unto  thy  heart 

Thy  kin  shall  gather  d  be, 
Each  pallid  from  the  kiss  of  Death 

And  beautiful  like  thee  /' 

'  O  Balder,  when  my  dark  day  came, 

And  in  despair  I  died, 
The  same  sad  Death  sang  low  to  me, 

Who  croucheth  at  thy  side  ! 

'  And  all  my  living  breath  was  gone 
For  three  long  nights  and  days, 

And  by  my  side  the  phantom  knelt 
Like  one  that  waits  and  prays. 

'  But  when  my  Father's  voice  again 

Came  faint  and  low  to  me, 
I  rose  out  of  my  grave,  and  snw 

Earth  sleeping  silently. 


THE  COMING  OF  THE  OTHER. 


477 


'  He  who  had  hush'd  me  in  his  arms 

Was  busy  other-where.  .  .  . 
I  stood  and  watch'd  my  Father's  eyes 

Shine  down  thro'  azure  air. 

'  Then  softly,  with  a  happy  smile, 

Along  the  land  I  crept, 
And  found  the  men  that  I  had  loved, 

Who  waited,  lived,  and  wept. 

'  And  lo,  I  blessed  them  one  and  all, 

And  cried  with  a  human  cry, 
"All  that  is  beautiful  shall  abide, 

All  that  is  base  shall  die." 

'  But  when  my  loving  task  was  done, 

My  soul  took  better  cheer, 
And  wandering  thro'  the  world  unseen 

I  sought  my  Brethren  dear. 

'  All  in  my  robe  of  snowy  white 

From  realm  to  realm  I  trod, 
Seeking  my  Brethren  who  had  died, 

The  golden  Sons  of  God  ! ' 

VI. 

THE  PARACLETES. 

'  I  wander'd  east,  thro'  shining  realms 

Of  bright  and  brazen  day, 
And  there,  by  a  great  river's  side, 

I  saw  a  Brother  pray. 

1  For  past  his  feet  the  corpses  drave 

Along  the  yellow  tide, 
Chased  by  the  emerald  water-snakes 

And  vultures  crimson-eyed. 

'  And  from  the  banks  there  rose  a  wail 

Of  women  for  their  dead  ; 
They  wept  and  tore  their  linen  robes, 

And  plunged  'neath  wheels  of  dread. 

1  Upon  his  brow  he  wore  a  crown, 
But  his  black  feet  were  bare, 

And  in  his  bright  and  brooding  ryes 
There  dwelt  a  piteous  care. 

1  From  his  red  lips  there  came  a  sound 

Like  music  of  a  psalm, 
And  those  who  listen' d  ceased  their  tears 

And  grew  divinely  calm. 

4  On  his  own  grave  he  sat  and  smiled, 

A  spirit  dark  and  sweet, 
And  there  were  flowers  upon  his  head 

And  fruits  around  his  feet.  .  .  , 


'  I  wander'd  west  where  eagles  soar 

Far  o'er  the  realms  of  rains, 
And  there,  among  pale  mountain  peaks, 

One  hung  in  iron  chains. 

'  His  head  was  hoary  as  the  snow 

Of  that  serene  cold  clime, 
Yet  like  a  child  he  smiled,  and  sang 

The  cradle  song  of  Time. 

'  And  as  he  sang  upon  his  cross, 

And  in  no  human  tones, 
The  cruel  gods  who  placed  him  there 

Were  shaken  on  their  thrones. 

1 1  kiss'd  him  softly  on  the  lips, 

And  sighing  set  him  free — 
He  wanders  now  in  the  green  world, 

Divine,  like  thee  and  me.  .  .  . 

4  Then  faring  on  with  foot  of  fire 

I  cross'd  the  windy  main, 
And  reach'd  a  mighty  continent 

Wash'd  green  with  dew  and  rain. 

'  There  swift  as  lightning  in  the  sun 
Ran  beauteous  flocks  and  herds, 

And  there  were  forests  flashing  bright, 
And  many-colour'd  birds. 

'  And  there  the  red-skin'd  hunters  chased 
The  deer  and  wild  black  kine, — 

And  lo  !  another  gentle  god 
Was  sitting  in  a  shrine  ! 

'  His  skin  enwrought,  as  if  he  lived, 

With  mystic  signs,  sat  he  ; 
Shaven  his  forehead,  and  his  face 

Was  painted  terribly. 

4  Yet  was  he  gentle  as  the  dew, 

And  gracious  as  the  rain  : 
With  healing  gifts  he  made  men  glad 

Upon  that  mighty  plain.  .  .  . 

4 1  wander'd  south,  where  rivers  roll'd 

Yellow  with  slime  and  sand, 
And,  black  against  an  orange  sky, 

I  saw  another  stand. 

1  Two  cymbals  held  he  as  he  stood, 
And  clash'd  them  with  shrill  wail : 

The  clash  was  as  the  thunder's  voice, 
Heard  'mid  the  drifting  gale. 


BALDER    THE  BEAUTIFUL. 


'  Black  was  his  skin  as  blackest  night, 

Naked  as  night  each  limb, 
Yet  in  his  eyeballs,  on  his  cheeks, 

The  heavenly  dew  did  swim.  .  .  . 

'  O  Balder,  these  thy  Brethren  were 

Surely  as  they  were  mine. 
I  wander  north,  and  thee  I  find 

The  best  and  most  divine  ! 

'  Yea,  each  of  these  was  offer 'd  up 

As  thou  hast  been,  and  I  ; 
Their  blood  was  drifted  ev'n  as  smoke 

Up  to  the  silent  sky. 

'  All  these  loved  Man  and  the  green  Earth 

As  thou  hast  done,  and  I ; 
And  each  of  these  by  stronger  gods 

Was  smitten  down  to  die. 

•  Yet  ever  when  I  came,  and  spake 

The  word  and  made  the  sign, 
Their  souls  grew  clothed  in  gentleness 

And  rose  again  with  mine ! 

'  Yea,  for  the  love  of  living  men 

They  stood  renew'd  in  breath, 
And  smote  the  great  gods  from  their  thrones 

With  looks  made  strong  thro1  Death. 

'  With  faces  fair  they  rose  and  wrought 

Against  the  gods  with  me, 
To  make  the  green  Earth  beautiful 

From  shining  sea  to  sea. 

'  Yea,  Balder,  these  thy  Brethren  were, 

Surely  as  they  were  mine  : 
My  Father's  blessing  on  thy  lips, 

For  thou,  too,  art  divine  ! ' 

VII. 

Beneath  his  feet  the  pale  Death  crouch'd 

Ev'n  as  a  lean  white  bear, 
Watching  with  dark  and  dreamful  eyes 

That  face  so  strangely  fair. 

But  paler,  sadder,  wearier, 

Stood  Balder  in  his  shroud, 
While  overhead  a  star's  still  hand 

Parted  the  drifting  cloud  ; 

And  from  the  lattices  of  heaven 

The  star  look'd  down  on  him  ; 
But  Balder  saw  not,  and  his  eyes 

With  tearful  dews  were  dim, 


'  O  Brother,  on  my  sense  still  lies 

The  burthen  of  my  sleep, 
A  weight  is  on  me  like  the  weight    " 

Of  winter  on  the  Deep. 

1  For  I  remember  as  I  wake 
Mine  old  glad  life  of  dream— 

The  vision  of  the  bridal  Earth, 
The  glory  and  the  gleam  ! 

'  Oh,  beautiful  was  the  bright  Earth, 

And  round  her  purple  bed 
The  torches  of  great  rivers  burnt 

Amber  and  blue  and  red  ! 

'  And  beautiful  were  living  men, 

Wandering  to  and  fro, 
With  sun  and  moon  and  stars  for  lights, 

And  flowers  and  leaves  below. 

'  But  evermore  this  phantom  Teath 

Was  darkening  the  sun, 
Seeking  the  sweetest  to  destroy. 

Sparing  and  pitying  none, 

'  And  lo,  I  live,  and  at  my  feet 
Death  cold  and  silent  lies,— 

While  in  thine  own  dear  Father's  name 
Thou  biddest  me  arise. 

'  O  wherefore  should  I  rise  at  all 

Since  all  is  black  above, 
And  trampled  'neath  the  feet  of  gods 

Lie  all  the  shapes  I  love  ? 

'Ay  me,  the  dead  are  strewn  with  snows, 

They  sleep  and  cannot  see, 
With  no  soft  voice  to  waken  them 

As  thine  has  waken' d  me  ! 

'  And  wherefore  should  my  soul  forget 

What  cruel  kin  were  mine, 
Tho'  in  another  Father's  name 

Thou  greetest  me  divine  ?  ' 

The  white  Christ  gazed  in  Balder's  face, 
And  held  his  hand,  and  cried, 

'  Divine  thou  art  and  beautiful, 
And  therefore  must  abide  ! 

'  And  in  mine  own  dear  Father's  name 

I  greet  and  bid  thee  rise, 
And  we  shall  stand  before  his  throne 

And  look  into  his  eyes,' 


THE   COMING   OF   THE   OTHER. 


479 


But  Balder  moan'd,  'Who  made  the  Earth, 

And  all  things  foul  or  fair  ? 
Who  made  the  white  bear  on  the  berg, 

The  eagle  in  the  air? 

'  Who  made  the  lightning's  forked  flame, 
Who  thunder's  blacken'd  brand? 

Who  fashion'd  Death,  with  fatal  eyes, 
Chill  breath,  and  clammy  hand?' 

Death  stirred  and  clung  to  B  tlder's  feet 

And  utter' d  forth  a  cry — 
A  thousand  starry  hands  drew  back 

The  curtains  of  the  sky  ! 

And  countless  eyes  look'd  calmly  down 

Thro'  azure  clear  and  cold, 
And  lo  !  the  round  red  moon  became 

A  shining  lily  of  gold  ! 

Then  on  the  wilderness  of  snow 

A  lustrous  sheen  was  shed, 
And  splendour  as  of  starlight  grew 

Around  the  white  Christ's  head. 

And  Christ  cried,  gazing  down  on  Death, 

Making  a  mystic  sign, 
•  Now  blessings  on  my  servant  Death, 

For  he  too  is  divine. 

1  O  Balder,  he  who  fashion'd  us, 

And  bade  us  live  and  move, 
Shall  weave  for  Death's  sad  heavenly  hair 

Immortal  flowers  of  love. 

'  Ah  !  never  fail'd  my  servant  Death, 
Whene'er  I  named  his  name, — 

But  at  my  bidding  he  hath  flown 
As  swift  as  frost  or  flame. 

'  Yea,  as  a  sleuth-hound  tracks  a  man, 
And  finds  his  form,  and  springs, 

So  hath  he  hunted  down  the  gods 
As  well  as  human  things ! 

4  Yet  only  thro'  the  strength  of  Death 

A  god  shall  fall  or  rise — 
A  thousand  lie  on  the  cold  snows, 

Stone  still,  with  marble  eyes. 

'  But  whosoe'er  shall  conquer  Death, 

Tho'  mortal  man  he  be, 
Shall  in  his  season  rise  again, 

And  live,  with  thee,  and  me  I 


'  And  whosoe'er  loves  mortals  most 
Shall  conquer  Death  the  best, 

Yea,  whosoe'er  grows  beautiful 
Shall  grow  divinely  blest. ' 

The  white  Christ  raised  his  shining  face 
To  that  still  bright'ning  sky. 

'  Only  the  beautiful  shall  abide, 
Only  the  base  shall  die  ! ' 


But  Balder  moan'd,  '  O  beauteous  Earth 

Now  lying  cold  and  dead, 
Bright  flash'd  the  lamps  of  flowers  and 
stars 

Around  thy  golden  head  ! 

'  And  beautiful  were  beast  and  bird, 
And  lamb  and  speckled  snake, 

And  beautiful  were  human  things 
Who  gladden' d  for  my  sake. 

'  But  lo  !  on  one  and  all  of  those 
Blew  the  cold  blighting  breath, 

Until  I  died  that  they  might  live 
And  bought  their  life  with  death. 

'  Behold,  I  live,  and  all  is  dark, 

And  wasted  is  my  pain, 
For  glimmering  at  my  feet  I  see 

The  fatal  eyes  again. 

'  Why  stays  he  here  upon  the  Earth  ? 

Why  lingers  he  below  ? 
The  empty  heavens  wait  for  him,  — 

'Tis  ended — let  him  go  ! ' 

Death  look'd  up  with  a  loving  face, 
And  smiled  from  the  white  ground  ;— 

The  stars  that  sat  upon  their  thrones 
Seem'd  singing  with  low  sound. 

The  white  Christ  cried,  '  The  green  Earth 
lives  ! 

She  sleeps,  but  hath  not  died  ! 
She  and  all  fair  things  thou  hast  named 

Shall  quicken  and  abide  1 

'  O  Balder,  those  great  gods  to  whom 

Thy  radiant  life  was  given, 
Were  far  too  frail  to  keep  their  plight 

And  summon  Death  to  heaven. 

'  There  is  no  god  of  all  thy  kin 
Dare  name  that  name  aloud  ; 


48o 


BALDER    THE  BEAUTIFUL. 


When  his  cold  hand  was  on  thy  heart, 
Each  crouch'd  within  his  cloud. 

'  Thou  couldst  not  buj  the  boon  of  those, 
They  were  too  weak  and  poor  ; 

Fain  would  they  buy  a  boon  of  thee, 
Now  thy  strange  sleop  is  o'er  ! 

'  Yet  now  for  evermore  fulfilled 

Is  thine  ancestral  rune, 
For  thou  indeed  hast  conquer'd  Death 

And  won  thy  gentle  boon. 

'  Yea,  thou  hast  died  as  fair  things  die 

In  earth,  and  air,  and  deep, 
Yet  hast  thou  risen  thrice  beautiful 

Out  of  thy  solemn  sleep. 

'  For  life  thrice  seal'd  and  sanctified 

Is  on  thy  lips  and  eyes  ; 
And  whatsoe'er  grows  fair  like  thee 

By  love  shall  also  rise. 

'  Lo  !  out  of  beauty  cast  away 

Another  beauty  grows : 
What  Death  reaps  in  the  fields  of  life 

In  fairer  fields  he  sows. 

1  And  thro1  a  thousand  gates  of  gloom, 

With  tracts  of  life  between, 
The  creatures  that  the  Father  made 

Creep  on,  now  hid,  now  seen  ; 

1  And  duly  out  of  every  doom 

A  sweeter  issue  flows, 
As  out  of  dreary  dooms  of  gods 

At  last  thy  glory  rose  ! 

1  So  fairer  yet,  and  ever  fair, 

Thy  soul  divine  shall  gleam, 
A  spirit  springing  from  a  tomb 

And  rainbow'd  into  dream  ! 

1 0  kiss  me,  Brother,  on  the  mouth, 

Yea,  kiss  me  thrice  again  ; 
For  when  I  feel  thy  kiss,  I  feel 

The  sun,  and  the  wind,  and  the  rain ! 

1  The  dead  Earth  wakens  'neath  thy  feet, 
Flame  kindles  thro'  the  sod.  .  .  . 

O  kiss  me  with  thy  human  lips, 
Thou  brightest  born  of  Gqd ! ' 


VIII. 

THE    TWILIGHT  OF  THE 
GODS. 

'BALDER!  Balder!' 

And  Raider  said, 
Turning  round  his  gentle  head, 
'  I  hear ! ' 

'And  thou,  my  servant  Death, 
K  neeling  low  with  hushed  breath, 
While  my  hand  is  on  thy  hair  ! ' 

Death  made  answer,  kneeling  there, 
1 1  hear ! ' 

1  At  last  the  cold  snows  cease, 
The  white  world  is  hush'd  in  peace, 
The  sky  is  clear,  the  storm  has  gone, 
Stars  are  rising  to  light  us  on — 
In  the  north  the  moon  grows  gray, — 
Take  my  hand  and  come  away ! ' 

•Whither,  O  Whither?1 

'  To  the  City  strange  wherein 
Dwell  the  mighty  gods  thy  kin  ; — 
O  Balder,  lead  me  thither ! ' 

'  Across  the  darkness  and  the  day, 
Long  and  dreary  is  the  way — 
O'er  chill  wastes  of  misery, 
Past  the  silent  Frozen  Sea, 
Where  the  white  bears  lean  and  old 
Run  and  shiver  in  the  cold — 
Where  the  vast  ice-mountains  rise 
Violet-blue  against  the  skies, 
Then  across  the  wondrous  Bow 

Only  gods  and  ghosts  may  tread, — 
Beyond  the  sea,  above  the  snow, 

Where  the  sunfire  fadeth  red  ; 
There  the  night  lies  and  no  day — 
Long  and  weary  is  the  way — 

0  Brother,  fare  not  thither  1 ' 

1  Broken  is  the  wintry  night, 
Rising  yonder  is  the  light ; 
Half  our  task  is  yet  to  do — 

Come  !  and  thou,  Death,  follow  too — 
O  Balder,  lead  me  thither ! ' 

Far  away  across  the  gloom, 
Rose-red  like  a  rose  in  bloom. 


THE    TWILIGHT  OF   THE    GODS. 


481 


Flashing,  changing,  ray  by  ray, 
Glorious  as  the  ghost  of  day, 
Gleam' d  in  one  vast  aureole 
Shifting  splendours  of  the  pole. 
All  across  the  vault  of  blue 
Shooting  lights  and  colours  flew, 
And  the  milky  way  shone  there 
Like  a  bosom  white  and  bare, 
Throbbing,  trembling,  softly  moved 
By  some  heart  that  lived  and  loved. 
Night  was  broken,  and  grew  bright. 
All  the  countless  lamps  of  light 
Swinging,  flashing,  near  and  far, 
Cast  their  glittering  rays  below, — 
While  the  silvern  polar  star 
Throbb'd  close  down  upon  the  snow.  .  . 

'  Take  my  hand,  and  let  us  go  ! ' 


And  so  those  twain  have  passed  across  the 

night, 

O'er  frozen  wilds  of  white, 
With  eyes  still  fixed  upon  the  polar  star 

That  burneth  bright  afar  ; 
And  Death  behind  them,  creeping  like  a 

hound, 
Still  follows  with  no  sound. 

O  wonders  of  the  cold  untravell'd  Waste 

Whereon  their  swift  feet  haste  ! 
The  night  is  troubled  ;  on  the  black  pole's 
pyres 

Flash  fierce  electric  fires, 
And  shadows  come  and  go,  phantoms  move 
forth 

Gigantic  in  the  north. 
Upon  the  snow  a  green  light  glimmereth, 

With  phosphorescent  breath 
Flashing  and  fading  ;  and  from  unseen  lairs 

Creep  hoary  ghost-like  bears, 
Crawling  across  their  path  without  a  cry. 

At  last  against  the  sky 
They  see  the  lonely  arctic  mountains  loom, 

Touch'd  with  a  violet  bloom 
From  peak  to  base  and  wearing  on  their 
heights 

Strange  ever-shifting  lights, 
Yellow  and  azure  and  dark  amethyst ; 

But  westward  they  are  kissed 
By  the  bright  beams  of  a  great  moon  of  gold. 


Dead-white  and  calm  and  cold 
Sleeps  the  great  waste,  while  ever  as  they  go, 

With  shadows  on  the  snow. 
Their  shapes  grow  luminous  and  silvern  fair, 

And  in  the  hush'd  chill  air 
The  stars  of  heaven  cluster  with  quick  breath 

To  gaze  on  them  and  Death. 
Now  thro"  the  trembling  sheen  of  the  still  sky 

Blue  fires  and  emerald  fly 
With  wan  reflections  on  the  sheeted  white 

Outspread  beneath  the  night, 
And  passing  thro'  them,  Christ  and  Balder 
seem 

As  spectres  in  a  dream, 
Until  at  last  their  feet  come  silently 

To  the  great  arctic  sea. 

Moveless  and  boundless,  stretching  blindly 
forth 

Into  the  purple  north, 
Rise  mountainous  waves  and  billows  frozen 
all 

As  if  i'  the  act  to  fall, 
And  tho'  they  stir  not,  yet  they  seem  to  roll 

In  silence  to  the  pole. 
So,  lit  by  countless  stars,  that  Ocean  old 

Wrapt  in  the  vapours  cold 
Of  its  own  breath,  beneath  the  lamps  of  night 

Gleams  blue  and  shadowy  white  ! 
Then  Balder  crieth,  — and  around  his  brow 

New  glory  glimmereth  now, — 
'  Ay  me,  remote  from  men  are  the  abodes 

Of  the  immortal  gods  ; 
Beyond  the  ocean  of  the  ice  ;  afar 

Under  the  sleepless  star  ; 
And  o'er  the  flood  of  the  wild  waters  spanned. 

From  lonely  land  to  land, 
By  the  great  bridge  of  the  eternal  Bow/ 

The  white  Christ  answereth  low, 
'  Tho'  it  were  further  than  the  furthest  light 

That  glimmereth  this  night, 
Thither  our  souls  are  bound,  our  feet  must 
go!' 

in. 
THE  BRIDGE  OF  GHOSTS. 

Their  feet  have  passed  the  frozen  Deep 

Whose  waves  in  silence  roll, 
And  now  they  reach  that  ocean  black 

Which  beats  the  inmost  pole. 

Before  them,  on  the  northern  sky 
Rose-red  and  far  withdrawn, 

II 


482 


BALDER    THE  BEAUTIFUL. 


Mingled  with  meteors  of  the  night, 
Gleam  golden  dews  of  dawn  ; 

And  cast  across  that  liquid  sea 

Which  surges  black  below, 
They  see  the  pathway  of  the  gods, 

A  many-colour' d  Bow. 

[There  comes  from  off  its  heights  a  wind 

That  blows  for  endless  time, 
As  swift  as  light,  as  keen  as  frost, 

It  strikes  down  souls  that  climb.] 

1 0  brother,  place  thy  hand  in  mine,' 

The  gentle  Balder  said  ; 
The  ray  less  waters  roar'd  beneath, 

The  Bridge  flash'd  overhead. 

Then  hand  in  hand  against  the  wind 

They  falter'd  upward  slow, 
On  stairs  of  crimson  and  of  gold 

Climbing  the  wondrous  Bow. 

Like  a  great  rainbow  of  the  earth 

It  rose  with  faint  hues  seven, 
And  thro'  the  purple  of  the  arch 

Glimmer' d  the  lights  of  heaven. 

When  they  had  reach'dthe  midmost  height, 

In  air  they  stood  so  high, 
To  one  beneath  they  would  have  seem'd 

As  stars  upon  the  sky. 

The  white  Christ  cried,  '  What  lonely  light 

Burns  yonder  ruby  red  ? ' 
1  The  mansion  of  the  sun-god  Fryer 

Stands  yonder,'  Balder  said. 

'  There  ranged  in  rows  with  cold  hands  crost 

The  slain  in  silence  lie, 
The  face  of  each  ablaze  like  brass 

Against  the  burning  sky.' 

Far  under,  as  they  linger'd  there, 

The  dark  deep  waters  roll'd ; 
Beyond,  the  polar  mountains  flash'd 

With  gleams  of  fiery  gold. 

Upon  the  shores  rose  hills  of  ice 

Hewn  as  in  marble  white, 
Inlaid  with  opal  and  with  pearl 

And  crown'd  with  chrysolite. 

From  stair  to  stair  the  brethren  trod, 
And  Death  crawl' d  close  behind, 

And  ever  as  they  walk'd,  the  Bridge 
Shook  wavering  in  the  wind. 


And  lo  !  they  seem'd  as  meteor  shapes, 
White-robed  and  shod  with  flame  ; 

And  to  them  out  of  the  cold  north 
A  threatening  murmur  came. 

Down  in  the  sullen  sea  below 

Now  ghostly  faces  clomb, 
Uplooking  with  wild  eyes  to  theirs 

And  waving  hands  of  foam  ! 

So  o'er  the  mighty  Bow  they  moved 
Snow-vestured  and  star-crown'd, 

And  Death  behind  them  like  a  shade 
Follow'd  without  a  sound. 

But  as  they  reach' d  the  shores  and  stood, — 
The  bright  Bridge  at  their  back, — 

The  gods  gazed  out  from  the  cold  north 
And  shriek' d,  and  all  grew  black  ! 

Deep  thunders  shook  the  darken'd  heaven, 
Wild  lightning  flash'd  and  fled, 

The  frozen  shores  of  ice  and  snow 
Trembled  beneath  their  tread. 

Round  the  ice-mountains  of  the  pole 

Dense  smokes  of  tempest  rose, 
And  from  their  lairs  swift  whirlwinds  leapt 

Wrapt  round  with  drifting  snows. 

'  O  Brother,  hold  me  by  the  hand, 

For  lo  !  the  hour  is  nigh  ; — 
I  see  the  shadows  of  the  gods, 

Yonder  upon  the  sky  ! ' 

IV. 

•BEHOLD,  I  AM  RISEN.' 

They  stood  in  the  snow  and  they  clung 

together, — 
The  air  was  blacken'd,   the  snow  was 

driven  ; 
There  came  a  tempest  of  wintry  weather 

Out  of  the  open  gates  of  heaven. 
The  darkness  drifted,  the  dark  snows  shifted, 
The  winnowing  fans  of  the  winds  were  lifted, 

And  the  realms  of  the  ice  were  riven  ; 
The  white  flakes  whirl  d  like  a  winged  cloud 

Round  and  over  and  under  ; 
The  Earth  shriek'd  loud  from  her  rending 

shroud, 
And  the  black  clouds  echoed  in  thunder  1 

•  O  Balder  !  Balder  ! ' 


THE    TWILIGHT  OF  THE    GODS. 


483 


And  Balder  replied, 
Feeling  not  seeing  his  face  who  :ried, 
•  I  hear ! ' 

1  And  thou  other  who  crouchest  there, 
Gazing  up  thro'  thy  hoary  hair, 
Stir  not  yet  till  I  bid  thee  go  ! ' 

And  Death  moan'd  answer  out  of  the  snow, 
1 1  hear  ! ' 

1  At  last  the  hour  hath  come, 
The  sky  is  troubled,  the  world  is  shaken, 
The  sleeping  gods  on  their  thrones  awaken, 

Altho'  their  lips  are  dumb. 
I  feel  a  breath  from  the  frozen  north, 
For  the  souls  of  the  slain  are  faring  forth, 
And  their  tramp  is  heard  on  the  frozen  ocean, 

And  their  tread  is  swift  in  the  vales  of  snow. 

They  come,  and  the  great  deep  throbs 

below 

To  the  sound  of  their  thund'rous  motion. 
O  Balder,  Balder  ! ' 

'  I  hearken,  I  hearken  ! ' 

'  Thro'  the  flakes  that  fall  and  the  ways  that 

darken, 

Over  the  earth  or  over  the  sea, 
North  is  the  way  that  our  feet  must  flee, 
Till  we  find  them  sitting  beyond  the  pole, 
Gods  without  pity,  gods  without  soul, 

Fresh  from  the  slaying  of  thee. 
North  is  the  way  that  our  feet  must  go, 
Breasting  the  blasts  from  the  gates  of  woe, 
Till  we  find  them  there  in  their  sacred  places, 
Gods  with  their  terrible  bloodless  faces, 
Writing  red-handed  for  mortal  races 

Black  runes  on  the  stainless  snow  ! ' 

.  .  .  Deeper  and  darker  the  night  is  growing, 
Faster  and  faster  the  clouds  are  snowing — 
Fleeter  and  fleeter  the  Brethren  fly 
With  faces  silver' d  against  the  sky, 
Till  close  before  them,  beyond  the  pole, 
The  aurora  flashes  its  fiery  scroll, 
While  the  winds  of  the  frozen  waste  are 

blowing, 

And  the  ice  is  riven  asunder  ! 
Lo  !  ghastly  blue  with  a  dreary  gleam 
The  bergs  of  the  pole,  like  ghosts  in  a  dream, 
Standing  pallid  against  the  heaven, 
Flash  with  the  forks  of  the  fiery  levin, 


And  to  and  fro  in  the  frozen  snow, 
Pass  manifold  shapes  of  wonder. 
Faster,  faster,  out  of  the  north, 
The  ghosts  of  Asgard  are  hurrying  forth, 
And  their  shields  of  ice  and  their  spears  of 

hail 

Clash  in  the  heart  of  the  gathering  gale, 
As  they  come  upon  feet  of  thunder. 

'  O  Balder  !  Balder  !  cling  unto  me  ! ' 

'  Lift  up  thy  lamp,  for  I  cannot  see— 
I  shiver  deep  to  the  bitter  bone,— 
While  the  chilly  seeds  of  the  sleet  are  sown 
In  my  flesh,  and  I  feel  not  thee  ! ' 

The  lamp  is  lifted  :  a  dreary  light 
It  sheddeth  out  on  the  northern  night ; 
It  comes  and  goes  like  the  lighthouse  ray 
Lost  on  the  soot-black  ocean  way. 
Nought  they  see  and  nought  they  feel, 
Only  the  frost  with  fingers  of  steel 
Gripping  their  throats,  so  fierce,  so  fast, 
Only  the  breath  of  the  bitter  blast 
Bending  their  bodies  as  trees  are  bent, 
Rending  their  garments  as  clouds  are  rent, 
While  overhead,  with  a  thund'rous  tread, 
The  black  heavens  frov/n  to  trample  them 

down, 
And  the  vials  of  storm  are  spent. 

'  O  Balder  !  Balder  !  what  shadows  white 
Stand  in  the  tempest's  shrieking  flight  ? 
There  in  the  darkness  I  discern 
Faces  that  fade  and  eyes  that  burn  ; 
They  loom  in  the  flash  of  the  thunder-doud, 
And  the  tramp  of  their  feet  is  as  surges  that 

roar, 

Rolling  around, 
On  some  desolate  rocky  shore.' 

Then  Balder  answer' d  with  eager  cry — 
'  Cover  thy  face  lest  thou  droop  and  d  e : 
'Tis  the  gods  my  brethren  !  I  see  them  plain, 
Each  sitteth  there  in  a  spectral  pain  ; 
They  search  the  waste  all  round  for  us, 
And  the  light  in  their  eyes  is  tremulous 
With  the  wrath  that  burns  the  brain  ! ' 

.   .  .   Blacker,  blacker,  the  night  is  growing, 
Thicker,  faster,  the  snow  is  snowing. 
Silent  amid  those  frozen  peaks 
Sit  gods  with  terrible  bloodless  cheeks, — 
I  I  2 


484 


BALDER    THE  BEAUTIFUL. 


Each  like  a  statue  of  marble  stone, 
Each  alone  on  a  lonely  throne, 
With  the  red  aurora  upon  their  hair, 
They  loom  in  desolate  circles  there, 

Silent,  with  folded  wings  ; 
They  do  not  stir  though  the  storm  drifts  by, 
They  do  not  speak  though  the  wild  winds 

cry, 

Silent  they  reign  in  a  starry  dream, 
While  the  north  star  flashes  its  fiery  beam, 

And  the  serpent  lightning  springs.  .  .  . 
Silent  they  sit, — but  who  is  He 
Who  broods  in  the  centre  awfully? 
Like  a  pale  blue  berg  in  the  frosty  light, 
Solemn,  speechle  s,  hoary  white, 
Coldly  wrapt  from  head  to  feet 
In  a  robe  of  snow  like  a  winding-sheet, 
With  a  crown  of  starlight  on  his  hair, 
He  sitteth  dreaming  with  fatal  stare, 

Tho'  his  throne  is  strangely  shaken. 
Black  is  his  home,  and  he  sits  thereon 
Still  as  a  mortal  whose  breath  is  gone, 
And  the  waves  are  frozen  around  his  feet, 
And  faint,  far  under,  the  earthquakes  beat, 

Yet  he  broods,  and  doth  not  waken. 

'  O  Balder  !  Balder  !  who  is  he 

Who  sitteth  there  so  silently  ? 

Who  sitteth  there  so  hoary  and  old, 

A  god  in  the  midst  of  gods  so  cold, 

And   hears  not  at  all,  though  the  storm 

winds  call, 
And  the  ghosts  of  Asgard  gather?' 

Then  Balder  answer' d,   '  The  gods  creep 

here, 

Weary  with  seasons  of  strife  and  fear — 
They  come,  they  go — but  for  ever  and  aye 
He  stirreth  not,  be  it  night  or  day  ; 
Still  as  a  stone,  he  reigneth  alone  ! ' 

And  Balder  raising  his  hands,  made  moan, 
•  BEHOLD  I  AM  RISEN,  MY  FATHER  ! ' 

v. 
ALFADUR. 

The  rune  is  woven,  the  spell  is  spoken, 
And  lo  !  the  dream  of  the  gods  is  broken, 

And  each  pale  throne  is  shaken. 
They  rise,  they  tremble  against  the  sky, 
They  shriek  an  answer  to  Balder's  cry 

And  white  as  death  they  waken ! 


Gods  they  glimmer  in  frozen  mail, 
Their  faces  are  flashing  marble  pale, 
They  rise  erect,  and  they  wave  their  hands, 
They  scatter  the  shifting  snows  as  sands, 
And  gaze  in  the  face  of  the  Father  !  .  . 

.  .  .   Blacker,  blacker,  the  night  is  growing, 
Faster,  faster,  the  snow  is  snowing — 
Silently  looking  thro'  the  storm, 
Towers  the  one  gigantic  Form, 
And  all  around  with  a  trumpet  sound 

The  wintry  winds  are  blowing. 
The  light  of  doom  is  in  his  eyes,  his  arms 

spread  wide  for  slaughter, 
He  sits  'mid  gleams  of  burning  skies  and 

wails  of  wind-blown  water, 
Behind  the  outline  of  his  cheeks  the  pale 

aurora  flashes, 
He  broods  'mid  moveless  mountain  peaks 

and  looks  thro'  fiery  lashes  : 
On  heaven  and  earth  that  round  him  float 

in  whirls  of  snowy  wonder, 
He  looks,  and  from  his  awful  throat  there 

comes  the  cry  of  thunder  ! 

' BALDER  !  BALDER  ! ' 

...   'He  cries  on  me—- 
He standeth  yonder,  and  beckoneth  ! ' 
1  He  looketh  around,  but  he  cannot  see  ! 
Answer  him  back  with  a  gentle  breath, 
Now  the  air  is  still ! '  .  .  . 

'  I  am  here,  I  am  here  ! ' 
.  .  .  The  cry  went  up  to  the  godhead  drear, 
Like  the  cry  of  a  lamb  in  the  midst  of  the 

snow, 

When  the  voices  of  tempest  have  sobbed 
th^ir  fill, 

And  the  clouds  are  still 
For  a  little  space,  and  the  winds  lie  low. 
Then  rose  in  answer  a  wail  so  loud 
It  roll'd  as  thunder  from  cloud  to  cloud, 
And  the  gods  arose  in  a  winged  crowd, 
As  oft  'mid  desolate  mountain-peaks, 
With  clangour  of  wings  and  hungry  shrieks, 

Great  flocks  of  eagles  gather. 
Tearing  asunder  their  frozen  mail, 
Smiting  their  breasts  with  a  woful  wail, 
Looming  with  faces  spectral  pale, 

They  gazed  in  the  eyes  of  the  Father  ! 
Then  even  as  mighty  eagles  spread 
Their  wings  and  soar,  they  arose  and  fled 


THE   TWILIGHT  OF   THE   GODS. 


485 


Crossing  the  gleam  of  the  fiery  north, 
Facing  the  dark  drift  hurrying  forth, 

They  flew  on  flashing  pinions  ; 
As  wild  clouds  scatter'd  across  the  sky, 
They  wing'd   their  way  with  a  thunder- 
cry.  .  .  . 

But  moveless  there,  when  the  rest  had  flown, 
The  Father  sat  on  his  silent  throne, 
Dreary,  desolate,  all  alone, 

In  the  midst  of  the  white  dominions. 

1  BALDER  !  BALDER ! ' 

'  He  looks  on  me  ! 

He  stirreth  now,  with  a  sound  like  the  sea, 
And  he  calleth  aloud ! ' 

'  Then  move  no  limb, 

But  crouch  in  thy  place  and  answer  him  ; — 
Cry  once  more  full  loud  and  clear, 
Now  he  pauseth  again  ! '  .  .  . 

'  I  am  here,  I  am  here  ! ' 

Again  the  thunder  rolling  near, 
Again  the  tumult  of  wind  and  ocean  ; 
Around  the  throne  with  a  serpent  motion 

The  meteor  snakes  appear. 
White  in  the  midst  He  stands,  the  Spirit  of 

God  the  Master, 
Waving  his  wild  white  hands,  urging  his 

snows  on  faster ; 
But  ever  darker  yet  the  troubled  air  grows 

o'er  him, 
And  still  with  fierce  face  set  he  searcheth 

night  before  him,    ' 
And  then  again,  all  blind,  with  black  robes 

blown  asunder, 
He  gropeth  down  the  wind,  and  calls  aloud 

in  thunder, 

•BALDER,  BALDER. 

.  .  .   '  I  see  him  now, 
The  wrath  of  heaven  is  on  his  brow — 
He  stands  in  the  circle  of  meteors  white, 
His  white  feet  glimmer  like  cold  moonlight — 
I  can  feel  his  breath  ! ' 

'  Now  hold  my  hand — 
Rise  erect  on  thy  feet  and  stand — 
Make  answer  ! ' 

1  My  Father,  I  am  here ! ' 


As  an  infant's  cry,  so  faint,  so  clear, 
As  a  young  lamb's  cry,  so  soft,  so  low, 
Cometh  the  voice  from  the  waste  of  snow,— 
And  silence  deep  as  the  sleep  of  ocean, 
Stillness  with  no  stir,  no  motion, 

Follows  the  sound  of  the  cry.  .  .  . 
Terrible,  desolate,  the  Form 
Stands  and  broods  in  the  midst  of  the  storm, 
Beneath  him  wolves  of  the  fierce  frost  swarm, 

But  quiet  and  hush'd  they  lie. 
With  his  robe  wind-rent  and  his  form  wind- 
blown 

He  gazeth  round  and  round. 
He  seeth  a  snow  amid  the  snow 

And  heareth  a  human  sound. 

1  BALDER  !  BALDER  ! ' 

1  O  Father  dear, 

Turn  thine  eyes  and  behold  me  here— 
Ev'n  Balder  thy  Son  ! ' 

'  /  see  thee  not — 

Only  a  gleam  on  a  darken  d  spot, 
And  the  ray  of  the  light  in  thy  hand  T 

'  Ay  me, 

No  light  I  carry  that  thou  mayst  see. 
What  wouldst  thou,  Father  ? ' 

'  Why  hast  thou  risen  ? 
We  deem  d  thee  dead,  and  we  slept  in  peace — 
We  deem  d  thee  dead  w  ith  the  sn  ow for  prison , 

That  the  old  sad  fear  might  cease. 
We  deemd  thee  dead,  and  our  hearts  were 

light, 

For  never  more  would  thy  beauty  blight 
The  spirit  of  Me  thy  Father! ' 

Then  answer' d  Balder,  '  O  Father  dear, 
Turn  thine  eyes,  and  behold  me  here — 
Why  hatest  thou  me?  ' 

1  We  hate  thee  all 

For  thy  summer  face,  for  thy  soft  footfall, 
For  thy  beauty  blended  of  star  and  flower, 
For  thine  earthly  love,  for  thine  heavenly 

dower  ; 
For  the  rune  that  was  written,  the  rune  that 

was  read, 

We  cursed  thee  all,  but  our  curse  was  said 
Deepest  and  best  when  we  read  that  rune 
By  thy  love  for  men  I ' 


486 


BALDER   THE  BEAUTIFUL. 


As  the  rising  moon 
Creeping  up  from  a  cloudy  place, 
A  glory  grew  upon  Balder's-face — 
Again  he  murmur'd,  '  O  Father  dear, 
Turn  thine  eyes  and  behold  me  here— 
Why  hatest  thou  me  ? ' 

'  We  hate  thee  most 
By  the  rune  that  was  written,  the  rune  that 

was  lost, 
By  the  doom  that  above  thee  hung  sharp  as 

a  sword. 
When   thy  feet  stood  there  and  thy  -voice 

implored 

For  pity  of  men  ;  and  we  loved  thee  least 
For  loosing  the  yoke  of  man  and  beast, 
For  making  the  hearts  of  mortals  tame, 
For  calming  wild  hawk-like  men  who  came 
To  thy  beck  as  doves ;  then  we  loathed  to  see 
The  light  of  thy  name  upon  flower  and  tree, 
The  peace  of  thy  name  upon  hill  and  vale, 
The  love  of  thy  name  on  the  faces  pale 
Of  maidens  and  men;  yea,  for  all  these 

things, 

For  all  thy  life  and  the  light  it  brings, 
We  have  hated  and  hate  thee  unto  death.' 

But  Balder  answereth  back  and  saith, 
'  Why  hatest  thou  me  ? ' 

'  For  this  the  most  I 
Because  thy  coming  is  as  the  ghost 
Of  the  coming  doom  that  shall  strike  us  dead. 
For  the  rune  was  written,  the  rune  was  read, 
And  we  knew  no  resttillwc  bought  our  breath 
With  the  gentle  boon  of  thy  willing  death. 
Why  hast  thou  risen  ?  how  hast  thou  risen  f 
We  gave  thee  the  frost  and  the  snow  for 

prison, 

We  heard  thy  sigh  and  we  let  thee  die, 
Yet  thou  criest  again  with  a  human  cry 
From  the  gates  of  life!  .  .  .  But  I  stoop  at 

last 

To  sweep  thee  hence  with  my  bitterest  blast 
Out  to  the  heavens  of  pitiless  air, 
Where  nevermore  with  a  human  care 

That  face  of  thine 

May  trouble  the  eyes  of  the  gods  divine  ! 
Out  'mong  the  winged  stars,  deep  down  the 

dark  abysses, 
Beyond  the  black  tomb's  bars,  far  from  the 

green  Earth's  kisses. 


As  dust  thou  shalt  be  cast,  as  snow  thou 

shalt  be  drifted, 
Seized  by  my  fiercest  blast  thou  shalt  be  now 

uplifted. 
Call  on  all  living  things  that  stir  in  sun  or 

shadow — 
White  flowers,  sweet  forms  with  wings,  wild 

deer,  or  lambs  o  the  meadow  ; 
Call  on  the  moonlight  now  that  mingled  \n. 

thy  making  ; 
To  heaven  uplift  thy  brow,  where  the  pale 

spheres  are  waking  ; 
On  water,  air,  and  fire,  on  snow  and  on 

wind  and  on  forest, 
Call  with  a  wild  desire,  now  when  thy  need 

is  sorest  I 
Call  now  on  flower  or  bird  to  fill  the  plight 

they  gave  thee  ! 
Call,  let  thy  voice  be  heard,  and  see  if  Earth 

can  save  thee  1 ' 


Behind  the  back  of  the  Shadow  hoar, 
There  grew  a  trouble,  a  sullen  roar, 
Roar  as  of  beasts  that  prepare  to  come, 
Trouble  like  surges  that  flash  to  foam  ; 
Faster  and  faster  the  drift  whirl'd  round, 
Deeper  and  direr  grew  the  sound, 
And  the  four  fierce  winds  are  blowing  ! 
Yet  brighter,  calmer  grew  Balder's  face, 
Till  a  light  and  a  glory  fill'd  the  place, 
And  he  rose  his  height,  like  a  lily  white, 
Like  a  lily  white  in  the  heart  of  the  night, 
With  the  flakes  around  him  snowing  ! 


^  vi. 

THE  BRETHREN. 

'  Father,  Father,  why  hatest  thou  me, 
Whom  the  green  Earth  loves,  and  the  cir- 
cling sea, 
And  the  pure  blue  air,  and  the  light  of  the 

sun, 
And  the  birds  of  the  air,  and  the  flowers 

each  one  ? 

Hatest  thou  me  thro'  my  love  for  these  ? 
For  the  swift  deep  rivers,  the  frond  ed  trees, 
The  golden  meres  and  the  mountains  white, 
The  cataracts  leaping  from  height  to  height, 
And  the  deer  that  feed  on  the  snowy  steeps 
Where  the  rainbow  hangs  and  the  white 

mist  creeps  ? 
Hatest  thou  me  the  most  of  all 


THE    TWILIGHT  OF  THE   GODS. 


487 


For  my  care  of  mortals  whom  thou  hast 

made, 
My  blessing  on  lovers  whose  soft  footfall 

Soundeth  still  in  the  flowery  shade? 
Father,  Father,  hatest  thou  me, 
Because  of  my  light  on  humanity? 
Because  with  a  holy  anointing  balm 
I  have  heal'd  their  hearts  and  kept  them 

calm ; 

Because  I  have  sown  in  forest  and  grove 
The  roses  of  beauty,  the  lilies  of  love, 
That  men  might  gather,  and  sweeten  away 
The  taint  of  the  perishable  clay  ? 
Father,  Father,  listen  to  me — 
I  will  not  call  upon  bird  or  tree, 
I  will  not  call  upon  lamb  or  dove, 
On  the  flowers  below  or  the  stars  above  ; 
I  will  call  aloud,  and  thine  ears  shall  know, 
I  will  call  aloud  in  the  midst  of  the  snow, 
On  a  mortal  thing  of  mortal  breath 
Who  has  gazed  and  smiled  in  the  eyes  of 

Death, 
Who  has  loosen' d  his  shroud  and  his  feet 

made  free 

To  follow  and  find  me  over  the  sea. 
....  My  brother  Jesus,  hearest  thou  me ! ' 

Sweet  as  a  star  that  opens  its  lids  of  silver 

and  amber, 

Soft  as  a  lily  that  rises  out  of  a  water  still, 
Pure  as  a  lamp  that  burns  in  a  virgin's 

vestal  chamber 
When  winds  with  folded  wings  sleep  on 

the  scented  sill, 
Pale  as  the  moving  snow,  yet  calmer,  clearer, 

and  whiter, 

Holding  the  light  in  his  hand,  and  flash- 
ing a  ray  blood-red, 
Robed  in  a  silvern  robe  that  ever  grew 

stranger  and  brighter, 
Robed  in  a  robe  of  the  snow,  with  a 

glory  around  his  head, 
Christ  now  arose  !  and  upstanding  held  the 

cold  hand  of  his  Brother, 
Turning  his  face  to  the  storm  like  the 

wrath  of  some  beautiful  star, — 
And  the  sound  of  the  storm  was  hush'd, 

and  pale  grew  the  face  of  that  Other, 
He,  Alfadur  supreme,  most  direful  of  all 
gods  that  are  ! 


BALDER !  BALDER  ! ' 


O  Father,  I  listen  1 ' 


'  What  shape  is  this  whose  sad  eyes  glisten 
Bright  as  the  lamp  he  is  uplifting  9 
Round  and  o'er  him  snows  are  drifting, 
Yet  as  a  still  star  shineth  he, 
Pale  and  beautiful  like  thee. 
Who  is  this  that  standtth  there 
Even  as  a  mortal  man, 
Thin  and  weary  and  wan, 
A  lanthorn  in  his  hold, 
His  feet  bloody  and  bare, 
And  a  ring  of  brightest  gold 
Round  his  hair  ?' 

'  O  Father,  'tis  he  and  none  other 

Who  woke  me  from  my  tomb  ; 
The  Christ  it  is,  my  Brother, 

Tho'  born  of  a  woman's  womb. 
He  has  conquer'd  the  grave,  for  lo  ! 

He  died  and  he  rose  again  ! 
He  comes  to  the  silence  of  snow, 

From  the  beautiful  regions  of  rain  ; 
And  his  hair  is  bright  with  a  peaceful  light 
l  As  the  yellow  moon's  on  a  summer  night, 
And  the  flesh  on  his  heart  is  heapen  white 

To  cool  an  immortal  pain  ! ' 

Blacker,  blacker  the  night  is  growing, 
Deeper,  deeper  the  snow  is  snowing.  .  .  . 
As  the  rigid  wave  of  the  ocean-storm 
Towereth  the  gigantic  Form, 
And  he  lifts  his  hand  with  a  cold  command, 
And  the  shrill  winds  answer  blowing  ! 

A  ghastly  gleam  is  on  his  cheeks,  his  white 

robes  roll  asunder, 
He  raises  up  his  arms  and  shrieks  in  his 

old  voice  of  thunder, 
'  The  rune  was  writ,  the  rune  is  read — Son, 

thou  hast  slain  thy  Father, 
The  frames  are  quick  that  late  were  dead, 

and  from  the  grave  they  gather, 
The  pale  One  cometh  heavenly  eyed,  as  in 

thy  dreams,  O  Mother  ! 
He  wakes,  he  stands  by  Balder  s  side  as 

brother  smiles  by  brother. 
O  gods,  these  live,  and  must  we  die  ?  these 

bloom,  and  must  we  wither  ? 
Cry  with  a  loud  exceeding  cry  on  Death  and 

send  him  hither! 
Come,  come,  O  Death  !  I  call  on  thee— come 

hither,  fleeter,  faster  I 
Thou  hunter  of  humanity,  thou  hound  of 

me  thy  Master  ! 


488 


BALDER    THE  BEAUTIFUL. 


Slay  thou  these  twain,   that  we  may  live, 

who  feed  thy  throat  with  slaughter, 
And  blood  to  quench  thee  gods  will  give, 

shed  free  as  torrent  water  I 
Come  thou  this  night,    O  Death  divine, 

come  quickly  or  come  never, 
And  the  great  Earth  shall  all  be  thine  for 

ever  and  for  ever  ! ' 

The  snows  are  blowing,  the  Earth  is  crying, 
The  eagles  of  storm  are  shrieking  and  flying; 
Thunder-cloud  upon  thunder-cloud 
Piled,  and  flashing  and  roaring  aloud, 
Roll  from  the  north,  and  the  winds  rush  forth, 

And  the  billows  of  heaven  are  breaking. 
Hand  in  hand  the  Brethren  stand, 
Fair  and  bright  in  the  midst  of  the  night, 
Fair  and  bright  and  marble  white, 

Quiet  as  babes  awaking.  .  .  . 
But  who  is  he  that  stirring  slow, 
Wrapt  in  winding-sheet  of  snow, 
Riseth  up  from  the  Christ's  feet  ? 
His  golden  hair  all  white  with  sleet, 
His  eyes  all  dim,  his  face  snow-pale, 
He  stands  erect  in  the  drifting  gale  ! 
Tall  and  terrible  loometh  he, 
Facing  the  blast  like  a  frozen  tree  ! 

*  Death,  Death  !'  the  god  shrieks  now — 
Death,  Death,  is  it  surely  thou  ? 
Death,  Death  / '  and  the  god  laughs  loud, 
Answer' d  by  every  thunder-cloud, 

While  the  snows  are  falling  faster, — 
1  Death,  Death,  there  is  thy  prey  !— 
Take  them  and  tear  them  and  rend  them 

away, 
As  flakes  of  snow,  as  drops  of  spray, 

In  the  name  of  Me  thy  Master  /'  .  .  . 

Like  two  lilies  crown'd  with  gold, 
Very  beauteous  to  behold, 

Blown  in  summer  weather, 
Like  two  lambs  with  silvern  feet, 
Very  beauteous  and  sweet, 
Held  together  with  a  chain 
In  some  sacrificial  fane, 

The  Brethren  cling  together. 
Ever  fairer  still  they  grow 
While  the  noise  of  storm  sinks  low, 
And  the  Father's  snow-white  hand 
Pointeth  at  them  as  they  stand, 
And  the  silent  shape  of  Death 
Creepeth  close  and  shuddereth  ! 


See,  O  see,  the  light  they  wear, 
On  their  heads  and  o'er  their  hair, 
Falleth  on  the  Phantom  now, 
Lying  softly  on  his  brow.  .  .  . 
Death,  O  Death,  can  this  be  thou  f 

VII. 

FATHER  AND  SON. 

Now  hark,  one  crieth  ! 

'  My  servant  Death, 
Kneeling  there  with  hushed  breath, 
Listen,  ere  I  bid  thee  go  ! ' 
Death  makes  answer  out  of  the  snow, 
'I  hear!' 

The  Christ  hath  risen  his  height, 
Large  and  strange  in  a  lonely  light, 
And  he  lifts  his  hand  and  makes  the  sign 
Of  the  blessed  cross  on  his  breast  divine, 
And  the  thrones  of  the  white  gods  flash  like 

fire, 
And  sink  in  earthquake  around  the  Sire, 

Shaken  and  rent  asunder  ! 
Then  he  lifts  his  hand  and  he  makes  the  sign 
Once  again  on  his  breast  divine, 
And  the  mountains  of  ice  around  the  throne 
Are  troubled  like  breakers  rolling  on 

To  the  sound  of  their  own  thunder ! 

'  Father  !  Father  ! '  Balder  cries, 
With  arms  outstretch'd  and  weeping  eyes, 
'  Father ! ' — but  lo !  the  white  Christ  stands, 
Raising  yet  his  holy  hands, 
And  cries,  '  O  Death,  speed  on  !  speed  on  1 
Conquer  now  and  take  thy  throne — 
Now  all  the  gods  have  taken  flight, 
Reign  thou  there  one  starless  night 
In  the  room  of  him,  the  Father  ! ' 

Slowly  over  the  icy  ground, 

Slow  and  low  like  a  lean  sleuth-hound, 

Without  a  breath,  without  a  sound, 

The  phantom  form  is  crawling. 
He  makes  no  shadow,  he  leaves  no  trace, 
Snow  on  snow  he  creepeth  apace, 
Nearer,  nearer,  the  fixed  Face 

Veil'd  with  the  flakes  still  falling. 
'  Father  !  Father  ! '  Balder  cries  .  .  . 
Silent,  terrible,  under  the  skies, 
Sits  the  God  on  his  throne,  with  eyes  on  his 
Son 

Whose  gentle  voice  is  calling  ! 
As  the  cuckoo  calls  in  the  heart  of  the  May 

Singing  the  flowers  together, 


THE    TWILIGHT  OF   THE   CODS. 


489 


As  the  fountain  calls  thro'  its  flashing  spray, 
As  a  lamb  calls  low  "mid  a  mountain-cloud, 
As  a  spirit  calls  to  a  corpse  in  its  shroud, 
The  Son  cries  on  the  Father ! 

VIII. 

TWILIGHT. 

The  wind  is  blowing,  the  skies  are  snowing, 

The  ice  is  rent  and  the  rocks  are  riven, 
But  morning  light  in  the  north  is  growing, 

Crimson  light  of  the  altars  of  heaven. 
Silent,  still,  amidst  the  storm, 
Sitteth  there  the  formless  Form, 
Hearkening  out  of  his  hoary  hair, 
Waiting  on  in  a  dark  despair, 

While   the  burning  heavens  flame  o'er 

him  !  .  .  . 

Suddenly,  wild  and  wing'd  and  bright, 
Towering  to  heaven  in  shroud  of  white, 
A  phantom  upriseth  against  the  light 

And  standeth  vast  before  him.  .  .  , 
Is  it  a  Shadow,  or  only  the  snow  ? 
The  skies  are  troubled,  the  light  burns  low, 

But  stars  still  gather  and  gather. 
Is  it  a  Shadow,  or  only  the  snow, 
Uprising  there  in  the  blood-red  glow, 
Ever  towering  higher  and  higher, 
In  a  robe  of  whiteness  fringed  with  fire, 
Outstretching  wings  without  a  cry 
From  verge  to  verge  of  the  burning  sky, 

With  eyes  on  the  eyes  of  the  Father  ? 

Now   Balder  crieth,  '  What  shape  comes 

there, 

Terrible,  troubling  the  heavens  and  air  ? 
Is  it  Norna  the  arctic  swan, 
The  bright  and  bodiless  Skeleton, 
Bird-shaped,  with  a  woman's  breasts  and 

eyes, 

Whose  wings  are  wide  as  the  world  and  skies  ? 
Is  it  Norna,  or  only  the  snow, 
Moving  yonder  against  the  glow, 
Ever  towering  higher  and  higher, 
Ever  outspreading  pinions  dire 
And  looking  down  in  a  dumb  desire, 
With  eyes  on  the  eyes  of  the  Father  ! ' 

It  is  not  Norna,  it  is  not  the  snow. 

The  skies  are  troubled ;  the  light  burns  low ; 

Yet  stars  still  gather  and  gather. 
'  Father  !  Father  !  awaken,  awaken  ! 
One  bends  above  thee  with  bright  hair  shaken 
Over  thv  throne  like  a  falling  flame  ; 


One  toucheth  thy  cheek  and  nameth  thy 

name, 

In  a  voice  I  hear,  in  a  tone  I  know  ; 
It  is  not  Norna,  it  is  not  the  snow, 

By  the  face  and  the  voice  and  the  tone. 
Vaster  than  these  and  vaster  than  thou, 
Touching  the  stars  with  a  shining  brow, 
Flickering  up  to  the  twinkling  shades 
Where  the  wild  aurora  flashes  and  fades, 
Spreading  its  wings  from  east  to  west, 
As  an  eagle  that  looks  on  a  hawk  in  its  nest 

It  hungereth  over  thy  throne ! 
Father  !  my  Father  !  ' 

'  He  cannot  hear— 
Hide  thy  face,  for  the  hour  is  near — 
Hush  !'.... 

.  .  .  Who  shrieks  in  the  heart  of  the 

night?  .  .  . 
Terrible,  desolate,  dumb  and  blind, 

Like  a  cloud  snow-white 
Struggling  and  rent  in  the  claws  o'  the  wind, 
The  Father  hath  risen  with  no  sound 
'Mid  the  wild  winds  wavering  around, 

And  his  stirring  deepens  the  storm. 
The  ice  is  shaken  beneath  his  tread, 
The  meteors  burn  around  his  head, 
But  faster,  thicker,  out  of  the  skies, 
Blotting  his  shape  from  Balder's  eyes, 

The  wild  flakes  waver  and  swarm. 
Now  face  to  face  in  the  blood-red  gleam, 
Like  clouds  in  the  sunset,  like  shapes  in  a 

dream, 

Face  to  face,  with  outstretch'd  hands 
Like  lightning  forks  that  illume  the  lands, 
Face  to  face,  and  sight  to  sight, 
Like  vulture  and  eagle  fierce  for  fight, 
They  rise  and  they  rise  against  the  skies,— 
Alfadur  with  his  fiery  eyes, 

And  the  other  vaster  Form  ! 

It  is  not  Norna,  but  stranger  and  brighter, 
It  is  not  the  snow,  but  wilder  and  whiter  ; 

Ever  greater  yet  it  grows 

Wrapt  about  with  whirling  snows, 

Ever  it  dilateth  on, 

Till,  a  crimson  Skeleton, 

With  his  head  against  the  sky 

Where  the  pale  lights  flicker  and  die, 

Strange,  he  stands,  with  orbs  of  fire 

Looking  down  upon  the  Sire. 

See,  O  see  upon  his  brow 

Strangest  lustre  liveth  now, 


490 


BALDER    THE   BEAUTIFUL. 


On  his  neck  and  round  his  frame 
Twines  a  snake  of  emerald  flame.  .  .  . 
Death,  O  Death,  can  it  be  thou  ? 

'  Father,  father  !  I  cannot  see — 

The  heavens  are  bright,  but  the  world  is 

white, 

The  wings  of  the  wan  Form  cover  thee— 
Around  and  around,  with  no  sigh,  with  no 

sound, 
Like  the  mists  of  a  cloud,  like  the  folds  of 

a  shroud, 
They  enwrap  thee,-^and  hide  thee  from 

me  !' 


•A  CROSS  AND  A  LILY.' 
'  It  is  over !  O  Balder,  look  up  and  behold ! ' 

'  Not  yet,  for  I  sicken — my  sense  shrinketh 

cold, 
And  I  fear  the  strange  silence  that  cometh 

at  last  ! 
All  is  hush' d— all  is  dead— the  dew  now  is 

shed 
Warm  as  tears  on  my  hand,  but  the  tempest 

hath  pass'd, 
And  the  sounds  of  the  tempest  are  fled  ! ' 

1  Arise  1 ' 

4 1  am  risen  ! ' 

'  Behold ! 

1  All  is  white, 
But  the  darkness  hath  gone,  and  the  stars 

of  the  night, 
And  down  from  the  north  streams  the  dawn 

flowing  free  ; 
But  I  see  not  my  Father ! ' 

'  Again ! 

'  Woe  is  me  ! 
His  throne  standeth  there  white  and  cold, 

and  thereon 

Sits  another  I  know,  as  a  King  on  a  throne, 
Yea,  sceptred  and  crowned  .  .  .  and  vaster 

tenfold 

He  seems  than  the  Spirit  who  sat  there  of  old, 
For  his  form  'gainst  the  heavens  looms  fiery 

and  fair, 
And  the  dew  of  the  dawn  burneth  bright  on 

his  hair ; 


And  we  twain  unto  him  are  as  birds  in  the 

night 

That  sit  gazing  up  at  a  great  snowy  height 
Where  the  starlight  is  coming  and  going  like 

breath.' 

'  So  strange  and  so  changed,  yet  'tis  he, 
even  Death, — 

Best  and  least,  last  and  first.  He  hath 
conquer' d  his  own. 

All  gods  are  as  sand  round  his  feet  tempest- 
blown, 

And  lesser  yet  greater,  more  weak  yet  more 
wise, 

Are  we  who  stand  here  looking  up  in  his  eyes. 

All  hail  now  to  Death,  since  the  great  gods 
are  dead  ! ' 

'  Woe  is  me— it  was  written,  and  lo  !  it  is 
read ! ' 

'  Come  together,  and  bless  him  ! ' 

•My  Father?' 

'  The  same. 
On  his  throne  I  will  mark  with  a  finger  of 

flame 
A  cross  and  a  lily  for  thee  and  for  me ! ' 

They  pass  o'er  the  ice,  and  a  sound  like  the 

sea 
Grows  under  their  footprints  ;  and  softly 

they  come 
Where  Death,  with  his  eyes  fix'd  on  heaven, 

sitteth  dumb  ; 
And  they  pause  at  his  feet,  while  far  o'er 

them  he  looms 
With  his  brow  'mong  the  stars  and  the 

amethyst  glooms, 
Yea,  they  pause  far  beneath,  and  with  finger 

divine 
The  white  Christ  hath  made  on  the  snow 

for  a  sign 
The  cross  and  the  lily  .  .  .  then  rising  he 

stands, 
And  looketh  at  Death  with  uplifting  of  hands. 

Still  as  a  star  he  shineth,  brightly  his  eyes 

are  burning, 
White  as  a  dove  he  seems  in  the  morning's 

dewy  breath, 
Lifting  again  his  face  with  a  smile  of  loving 

and  yearning, 

He  looketh  gently  up  at  the  godlike  shape 
of  Death ; 


THE    TWILIGHT  OF  THE   GODS— THE  LAST  BLESSING.     491 


And  the  hair  of  Death  is  golden,  the  face  of 

Death  is  glowing, 
While  softly  around  his  form  he  folds  his 

mighty  wings, 
And  vast  as  the  vast  blue  heavens  the  fair 

faint  form  is  growing, 
But  the  face  that  all  men  fear  is  bright 

with  beautiful  things. 
Ev'n  so  the  Brethren  wait  where  the  darkest 

snows  are  drifted, 

Small  as  two  doves  that  light  in  a  wilder- 
ness alone, 
While  bright  on  the  blood- red  skies,  with 

luminous  head  uplifted, 
In  a  dream  divine  upgazing,  Death  sitteth 
upon  his  throne. 


IX. 
THE  LAST  BLESSING. 

i. 

THE  WAKING  OF  THE  SEA. 

'  ALL  that  is  beautiful  shall  abide, 

All  that  is  base  shall  die.' 
Hark  !  birds  are  singing  far  and  wide, 

Under  the  summer  sky.  .  .  . 

Southward  across  the  shining  Bow 

The  blessed  Brethren  came  ; 
They  wore  soft  raiment  of  the  snow 

And  sandals  shod  with  flame. 

And  golden  lights  and  rippling  rains 

Were  on  the  frozen  sea, 
The  bergs  were  melting  from  their  chains, 

The  waters  flashing  free. 

The  white  Christ  lifted  hands  above 

The  silent  wakening  Deep, 
And  the  unseen  depths  began  to  move 

With  motions  soft  as  sleep. 

Then  on  an  isle  of  ice  he  stept, 

Leading  his  Brother  mild, 
And  blest  the  waters  as  they  slept, 

And  lo,  they  woke  and  smiled  1 

Around  him  on  the  melting  sea 
The  glittering  icebergs  stirred, 

And  glimmer'd  southward  silently, 
Like  things  that  lived  and  heard. 


Then,  like  a  ship  on  the  still  tide 

That  slowly  leaveth  land, 
His  own  white  isle  began  to  glide 

At  lifting  of  his  hand. 

Silently  as  a  flock  of  sheep 

The  bergs  stirred  in  the  sun, 
Shepherded  gently  down  the  Deep 

By  that  immortal  one. 

For  as  he  raised  his  snow-white  hand, 

They  crept  full  softly  by,— 
Or  paused  and  stood,  as  fair  flocks  stand 

Under  the  shepherd's  eye. 

Far,  far  away  into  the  north 
They  stretch' d  in  legions  white, 

Trembling  and  changing,  creeping  forth 
Out  of  a  crimson  light. 

And  all  the  colours  of  the  Bow 
Down  their  bright  sides  were  shed  ; 

Above  the  sky  was  gold  ;  below, 
The  sea  all  rippling  red  ! 


FROM  DEATH  TO  LIFE. 

Bright  Balder  at  his  brother's  feet 

Lay  looking  on  the  sea, 
And  sea-birds  hover 'd  white  and  sweet 

Around  him,  silently. 

And  white  bears  cra.wl'd  out  of  the  Deep 

To  see  him,  and  were  blest ; 
And  black  seals  with  their  young  did  creep 

Upon  the  berg  to  rest. 

Brighter  and  fairer  all  around 

The  kindling  waters  shone  ; 
And  softly,  swiftly,  with  no  sound, 

The  white  flocks  glided  on. 

An  \  far  away  on  every  side 
The  glittering  ice-blink  grew,— 

Millions  of  bergs  like  ships  that  ride 
Upon  the  waters  blue. 

O  Balder,  Balder,  wherefore  hide 
Thy  face  from  the  blue  sky ! ' 

The  voice  was  music,  but  it  cried 
Like  any  human  cry. 


492 


BALDER    THE  BEAUTIFUL. 


'O  Balder,  Balder,' the  white  Christ  said, 

'  Look  up  and  answer  me. ' 
Bright  Balder  raised  his  golden  head, 

Like  sunrise  on  the  sea. 

'  O  Brother,  I  was  weeping  then 
For  those  whom  Death  o'erthrew. 

Shall  I,  whose  eyes  have  mourn'd  for  men, 
Not  mourn  my  brethren  too  ? ' 

The  white  Christ  answer' d  back ,  and  cried , 

Shining  under  the  sky, 
'  All  that  is  beautiful  shall  abide, 

All  that  is  base  shall  die. 

'  And  if  among  thy  sleeping  kin 

One  soul  divine  there  be, 
That  soul  shall  walk  the  world  and  win 

New  life,  with  thee  and  me. 

'  Death  shall  not  harm  one  holy  hair, 
Nor  blind  one  face  full  sweet ; 

Death  shall  not  mar  what  Love  made  fair  ; 
Nay,  Death  shall  kiss  their  feet ! ' 

Then  Balder  rose  his  heavenly  height, 

And  clear  as  day  smiled  he  ; 
His  smile  was  bright  as  noonday  light 

Upon  the  sparkling  sea. 

Turning  his  face  unto  the  north, 

He  utter'd  up  a  prayer, 
He  saw  the  great  Bridge  stretching  forth, 

But  never  a  god  walk'd  there. 

He  pray'd  for  those  great  gods  o'erthrown 

And  cast  in  Death's  eclipse, 
He  named  the  goddesses  each  one, 

And  blest  them  with  his  lips. 

And  lo  !  from  bright'ning  far-off  lands 

He  saw  glad  spirits  gleam, 
Gazing  to  sea,  and  waving  hands, 

And  singing  in  a  dream ; 


And  far  away  where  earth  and  air 

Mingled  their  gentle  lights, 
There  stood  one  marble  form  most  fair 

Upon  the  cloudless  heights. 

Against  the  calm  and  stainless  blue 

It  stood  divinely  dim, 
And  lo,  his  mother's  form  he  knew, 

And  felt  her  eyes  on  him  ! 

Silent  she  paused,  serene  and  crown'd, 

Amid  a  summer  sheen 
And  cataracts  flash'd  their  lights  around, 

And  woods  grew  dewy  green. 

Softly  he  sail'd  beyond  her  sight 

Upon  the  summer  sea. 
And  once  again  with  hands  snow-white 

He  blest  all  things  that  be. 

And  brighter,  brighter,  as  he  blest, 

The  loosen'd  Ocean  grew, 
And  all  the  icebergs  rock'd  at  rest 

Upon  the  waters  blue. 

Along  the  melting  shores  of  earth 

An  emerald  flame  there  ran, 
Forest  and  field  grew  bright,  and  mirth 

Gladden'd  the  flocks  of  Man. 

Then  glory  grew  on  earth  and  heaven, 

Full  glory  of  full  day ! 
Then  the  bright  rainbow's  colours  seven 

On  every  iceberg  lay ! 

In  Balder's  hand  Christ  placed  his  own, 

And  it  was  golden  weather, 
And  on  that  berg  as  on  a  throne 

The  Brethren  stood  together ! 

And  countless  voices  far  and  wide 
Sang  sweet  beneath  the  sky — 

'  All  that  is  beautiful  shall  abide, 
All  that  is  base  shall  die  ! ' 


THE  STRANGE  COUNTRY. 


493 


Miscellaneous  Poems  and  Ballads, 


(1878-83.) 


Clown.  What  hast  here ?    Ballads? 

Mop.  Pray  now,  buy  some  :  I  love  a  ballad  in  print  o'  life,  for  then  we  are  sure  they  are  true. 
Aut.  Here's  one  to  a  very  doleful  tune.  .  .  .  This  is  a  merry  ballad,  but  a  very  pretty  one. 

The  Winters  Tale. 


DEDICATION 
To  HARRIETT. 

HERE  at  the  Half-way  House  of  Life  I  linger, 
Worn  with  the  way,  a  weary-hearted  Singer, 

Resting  a  little  space ; 

And  lo  !  the  good  God  sends  me,  as  a  token 
Of  peace  and  blessing  (else  my  heart  were  broken), 

The  sunbeam  of  thy  face. 

My  fear  falls  from  me  like  a  garment ;  slowly 
New  strength  returns  upon  me,  calm  and  holy  ; 

I  kneel,  and  I  atone.  .  . 

Thy  hand  is  clasped  in  mine  — we  lean  together.  . 
Henceforward,  through  the  sad  or  shining  weather, 

I  shall  not  walk  alone. 


THE  STRANGE   COUNTRY. 

I  HAVE  come  from  a  mystical  Land  of  Light 

To  a  Strange  Country  ; 
The  Land  I  have  left  is  forgotten  quite 

In  the  Land  I  see. 

The  round  Earth  rolls  beneath  my  feet, 

And  the  still  Stars  glow, 
The  murmuring  Waters  rise  and  retreat, 

The  Winds  come  and  go. 

Sure  as  a  heart-beat  all  things  seem 

In  this  Strange  Country ; 
So  sure,  so  still,  in  a  dazzle  of  dream, 

All  things  flow  free. 

'Tis  life,  all  life,  be  it  pleasure  or  pain, 

In  the  Field  and  the  Flood, 
In  the  beating  Heart,  in  the  burning  Brain, 

In  the  Flesh  and  the  Blood. 

Deep  as  Death  is  the  daily  strife 

Of  this  Strange  Country : 
All  things  thrill  up  till  they  blossom  in  Life, 

And  flutter  and  flee. 


Nothing  is  stranger  than  the  rest, 

From  the  pole  to  the  pole, 
The  weed  by  the  way,  the  eggs  in  the  nest, 

The  Flesh  and  the  Soul. 

Look  in  mine  eyes,  O  Man  I  meet 

In  this  Strange  Country ! 
Lie  in  mine  arms,  O  Maiden  sweet, 

With  thy  mouth  kiss  me  ! 

Go  by,  O  King,  with  thy  crowned  brow 

And  thy  sceptred  hand— 
Thou  art  a  straggler  too,  I  vow, 

From  the  same  strange  Land. 

O  wondrous  Faces  that  upstart 
In  this  Strange  Country ! 

0  Souls,  O  Shades,  that  become  a  part 
Of  my  Soul  and  me  ! 

What  are  ye  working  so  fast  and  fleet, 

O  Humankind? 
'  We  are  building  Cities  for  those  whose  feet 

Are  coming  behind ; 

'  Our  stay  is  short,  we  must  fly  again 

From  this  Strange  Country ; 
But  others  are  growing,  women  and  men, 

Eternally ! ' 

Child,  what  art  thou  ?  and  what  am  I? 

But  a  breaking  wave  ! 
Rising  and  rolling  on,  we  hie 

To  the  shore  of  the  grave. 

1  have  come  from  a  mystical  Land  of  Light 
To  this  Strange  Country ; 

This  dawn  I  came,  I  shall  go  to-night, 
Ay  me  !  ay  me  ! 

I  hold  my  hand  to  my  head  and  stand 
"Neath  the  air's  blue  arc, 


494 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


I  try  to  remember  the  mystical  Land, 
But  all  is  dark. 

And  all  around  me  swim  Shapes  like  mine 

Tn  this  Strange  Country  ; — 
They  break  in  the  glamour  of  gleams  divine, 

And  they  moan  '  Ay  me ! ' 

Like  waves  in  the  cold  Moon's  silvern  breath 

They  gather  and  roll, 
Each  crest  of  white  is  a  birth  or  a  death, 

Each  sound  is  a  Soul. 

Oh,  whose  is  the  Eye  that  gleams  so  bright 

O'er  this  Strange  Country  ? 
It  draws  us  along  with  a  chain  of  light, 

As  the  Moon  the  Sea  ! 


THE  BALLAD   OF  JUDAS 
ISC  A  RIOT. 

'TWAS  the  body  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Lay  in  the  Field  of  Blood  ; 
'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Beside  the  body  stood. 

Black  was  the  earth  by  night, 

And  black  was  the  sky  ; 
Black,  black  were  the  broken  clouds, 

Tho'  the  red  Moon  went  by. 

'Twas  the  body  of  Judas  Iscariot 
Strangled  and  dead  lay  there  ; 

'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 
Look'd  on  it  in  despair. 

The  breath  of  the  World  came  and  went 

Like  a  sick  man's  in  rest ; 
Drop  by  drop  on  the  World's  eyes 

The  dews  fell  cool  and  blest. 

Then  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Did  make  a  gentle  moan — 
'  I  will  bury  underneath  the  ground 

My  flesh  and  blood  and  bone. 

1 1  will  bury  deep  beneath  the  soil, 

Lest  mortals  look  thereon, 
And  when  the  wolf  and  raven  come 

The  body  will  be  gone  ! 

'  The  stones  of  the  field  are  sharp  as  steel, 
And  hard  and  cold,  God  wot ; 

And  I  must  bear  my  body  hence 
Until  I  find  a  spot  1 ' 


'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot, 
So  grim,  and  gaunt,  and  gray, 

Raised  the  body  of  Judas  Iicariot, 
And  carried  it  away. 

And  as  he  bare  it  from  the  field 

Its  touch  was  cold  as  ice, 
And  the  ivory  teeth  within  the  jaw 

Rattled  aloud,  like  dice. 

As  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Carried  its  load  with  pain, 
The  Eye  of  Heaven,  like  a  lanthorn's  eye, 

Open'd  and  shut  again. 

Half  he  walk'd,  and  half  he  seemed 

Lifted  on  the  cold  wind  ; 
He  did  not  turn,  for  chilly  hands 

Were  pushing  from  behind. 

The  first  place  that  he  came  unto 

It  was  the  open  wold, 
And  underneath  were  prickly  whins, 

And  a  wind  that  blew  so  cold. 

The  next  place  that  he  came  unto 

It  was  a  stagnant  pool, 
And  when  he  threw  the  body  in 

It  floated  light  as  wool. 

He  drew  the  body  on  his  back, 

And  it  was  dripping  chill, 
And  the  next  place  he  came  unto 

Was  a  Cross  upon  a  hill 

A  Cross  upon  the  windy  hill, 

And  a  Cross  on  either  side, 
Three  skeletons  that  swing  thereon, 

Who  had  been  crucified. 

And  on  the  middle  cross-bar  sat 

A  white  Dove  slumbering  ; 
Dim  it  sat  in  the  dim  light, 

With  its  head  beneath  its  wing. 

And  underneath  the  middle  Cross 
A  grave  yawn'd  wide  and  vast, 

But  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 
Shiver'd,  and  glided  past. 

The  fourth  place  that  he  came  unto 

It  was  the  Brig  of  Dread, 
And  the  great  torrents  rushing  down 

Were  deep,  and  swift,  and  red. 

He  dared  not  fling  the  body  in 
For  fear  of  faces  dim 


THE  BALLAD    OF  JUDAS  ISC  A  RIOT. 


495 


And  arms  were  waved  in  the  wild  water 
To  thrust  it  back  to  him. 

Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 
Turned  from  the  Brig  of  Dread, 

And  the  dreadful  foam  of  the  wild  water 
Had  splashed  the  body  red. 

For  days  and  nights  he  wandered  on 

Upon  an  open  plain, 
And  the  days  went  by  like  blinding  mist, 

And  the  nights  like  rushing  rain. 

For  days  and  nights  he  wandered  on, 

All  thro'  the  Wood  of  Woe  ; 
And  the  nights  went  by  like  moaning  wind, 

And  the  days  like  drifting  snow. 

'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Came  with  a  weary  face — 
Alone,  alone,  and  all  alone, 

Alone  in  a  lonely  place  ! 

He  wandered  east,  he  wandered  west, 

And  heard  no  human  sound  ; 
For  months  and  years,  in  grief  and  tears, 

He  wandered  round  and  round. 

For  months  and  years,  in  grief  and  tears, 

He  walked  the  silent  night ; 
Then  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Perceived  a  far-off  light. 

A  far-off  light  across  the  waste, 

As  dim  as  dim  might  be, 
That  came  and  went  like  the  lighthouse 
gleam 

On  a  black  night  at  sea. 

'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Crawl' d  to  the  distant  gleam  ; 
And  the  rain  came  down,  and  the  rain  was 
blown 

Against  him  with  a  scream. 

For  days  and  nights  he  wandered  on, 

Push'd  on  by  hands  behind  ; 
And  the  days  went  by  like  black,  black  rain, 

And  the  nights  like  rushing  wind. 

'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot, 

Strange,  and  sad,  and  tall, 
Stood  all  alone  at  dead  of  night 

Before  a  lighted  hall. 

And  the  wold  was  white  with  snow, 
And  his  foot-marks  black  and  damp, 


And  the  ghost  of  the  silvern  Moon  arose, 
Holding  her  yellow  lamp. 

And  the  icicles  were  on  the  eaves, 
And  the  walls  were  deep  with  white, 

And  the  shadows  of  the  guests  within 
Pass'd  on  the  window  light. 

The  shadows  of  the  wedding  guests 

Did  strangely  come  and  go, 
And  the  body  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Lay  stretch'd  along  the  snow. 

The  body  of  Judas  Iscariot 
Lay  stretched  along  the  snow  ; 

'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 
Ran  swiftly  to  and  fro. 

To  and  fro,  and  up  and  down, 

He  ran  so  swiftly  there, 
As  round  and  round  the  frozen  Pole 

Glideth  the  lean  white  bear. 

'Twas  the  Bridegroom  sat  at  the  table-head, 
And  the  lights  burnt  bright  and  clear — 

'  Oh,  who  is  that,'  the  Bridegroom  said, 
1  Whose  weary  feet  I  hear  ? ' 

'Twas  one  look'd  from  the  lighted  hall, 

And  answered  soft  and  slow, 
'  It  is  a  wolf  runs  up  and  down 

With  a  black  track  in  the  snow.' 

The  Bridegroom  in  his  robe  of  white 

Sat  at  the  table-head — 
'  Oh,  who  is  that  who  moans  without  ? ' 

The  blessed  Bridegroom  said. 

'Twas  one  looked  from  the  lighted  hall, 

And  answered  fierce  and  low, 
'  'Tis  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Gliding  to  and  fro. ' 

'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Did  hush  itself  and  stand, 
And  saw  the  Bridegroom  at  the  door 

With  a  light  in  his  hand. 

The  Bridegroom  stood  in  the  open  door, 

And  he  was  clad  in  white, 
And  far  within  the  Lord's  Supper 

Was  spread  so  broad  and  bright. 

The  Bridegroom  shaded  his  eyes  and  look'd, 
And  his  face  was  bright  to  see — 

1  What  dost  thou  here  at  the  Lord's  Supper 
With  thy  body's  sins?'  said  he. 


496 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 
Stood  black,  and  sad,  and  bare — 

'  I  have  wandered  many  nights  and  days  ; 
There  is  no  light  elsewhere. ' 

'Twas  the  wedding  guests  cried  out  within, 
And  their  eyes  were  fierce  and  bright — 

'  Scourge  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 
Away  into  the  night  ! ' 

The  Bridegroom  stood  in  the  open  door, 
And  he  waved  hands  still  and  slow, 

And  the  third  time  that  he  waved  his  hands 
The  air  was  thick  with  snow. 

And  of  every  flake  of  falling  snow, 

Before  it  touched  the  ground, 
There  came  a  dove,  and  a  thousand  doves 

Made  sweet  sound. 

'Twas  the  body  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Floated  away  full  fleet, 
And  the  wings  of  the  doves  that  bare  it  off 

Were  like  its  winding-sheet. 

'Twas  the  Bridegroom  stood  at  the  open 
door, 

And  beckon' d,  smiling  sweet ; 
'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Stole  in,  and  fell  at  his  feet 

'  The  Holy  Supper  is  spread  within, 

And  the  many  candles  shine, 
And  I  have  waited  long  for  thee 

Before  I  poured  the  wine  ! ' 

The  supper  wine  is  poured  at  last, 
The  lights  burn  bright  and  fair, 

Iscariot  washes  the  Bridegroom's  feet, 
And  dries  them  with  his  hair. 


THE  LIGHTS  OF  LEITH. 


'  THE  lights  o'  Leith  !  the  lights  o'  Leith  ! 

The  skipper  cried  aloud— 
While  the  wintry  gale  with  snow  and  hail 

Blew  snell  thro'  sail  and  shroud. 

'  The  lights  o'  Leith  !  the  lights  o'  Leith  ! ' 
As  he  paced  the  deck  cried  he — 

'  How  merrily  bright  they  burn  this  night 
Thro'  the  reek  o'  the  stormy  sea  ! ' 

As  the  ship  ran  in  thro'  the  surging  spray 
Afire  seemed  all  the  town  ; 


They  saw  the  glare  from  far  away, 
And,  safely  steer'd  to  the  land-lock1  d  bay, 
They  cast  their  anchor  down. 

'  'Tis  sure  a  feast  in  the  town  o'  Leith 
(To  his  mate  the  skipper  spoke), 
'  And  yonder  shadows  that  come  and  go, 
Across  the  quay  where  the  bonfires  glow, 
Are  the  merry-making  folk. 

'  In  right  good  time  we  are  home  once  more 
From  the  wild  seas  and  rough  weather — 

Come,  launch  a  boat,  and  we'll  run  a:>hore, 
And  see  the  sport  together.' 

But  the  mate  replied,  while  he  shoreward 
gazed 

With  sad  and  gentle  eyes, 
While  the  lights  of  Leith  beyond  him  blazed 

And  he  heard  the  landward  cries : 

'  'Tis  twenty  lang  year  since  I  first  left  here, 
In  the  time  o'  frost  and  snaw — 

I  was  only  a  lad,  and  my  heart  was  mad 
To  be  up,  and  free,  and  awa' ! 

'  My  mither  she  prayed  me  no'  to  gang, 
For  she  had  nae  bairn  but  me— 

My  father  was  droon'd,  and  sleeping  amang 
The  weeds  o'  the  northern  sea. 

'  I  stole  awa'  in  the  mirk  o'  night 

And  left  my  mither  asleep, 
And  ere  she  waken'd,  at  morning  light, 

I  was  oot  on  the  roaring  deep. 

'  Aye,  twenty  lang  year  hae  past  sin"  syne, 
And  my  heart  has  aft  been  sair 

To  think  o'  that  puir  auld  mither  o'  mine, 
Alane,  in  a  warld  o'  care. 

'  When  back  I  cam'  frae  the  salt  sea  faem 

I  was  a  bearded  man, 
Ae  simmer  I  dwelt  in  the  hoose  at  hame, 

Then  awa'  to  the  sea  I  ran. 

'  And  twice  sin*  syne  hae  I  left  the  sea 

To  seek  the  hameward  track, 
And  eye  my  mither  had  had  for  me — 
Tho'  ne'er  a  gift  had  my  hands  to  gie— 
A  tender  welcome  back. 

'  Then,  cast  awa'  in  a  soothern  land, 

And  taen  to  slaverie, 
I  lang'd  for  the  touch  o'  a  mither's  hand 

Ami  the  glint  o'  a  mither's  e'e. 


THE  LIGHTS   OF  LEITH. 


497 


4  But  noo  that  my  wandering  days  are  done, 

I  hae  dree'd  a  penance  sad, 
I  am  coming  hanie,  like  the  Prodigal  Son, 

But  wi'  siller  to  rnak'  her  glad  ! 

'  I  hae  gowden  rings  for  my  mither's  hand, 
Bonnie  and  braw  past  dream, 

And,  fit  for  a  leddy  o'  the  land, 
A  shawl  o'  the  Indian  seam. 

'  And  I  lang,  and  lang,  to  seek  ance  mair 
The  cot  by  the  side  o'  the  sea, 

And  to  find  my  gray  old  mither  there, 
Waiting  and  watching  for  me  ; 

4  To  dress  her  oot  like  a  leddy  grand, 
While  the  tears  o'  gladness  drap, 

To  put  the  rings  on  her  wrinkled  hand, 
The  siller  intil  her  lap  ! 

4  And  to  say"O  mither,   I'm  hame,   I'm 
hame ! 

Forgie  me,  O  forgie  ! 
And  never  mair  shall  ye  ken  a  care 

Until  the  day  you  dee  !  "  ' 

O  bright  and  red  shone  the  lights  of  Leith 

In  the  snowy  winter-tide — 
Down  the  cheeks  of  the  man  the  salt  tears 
ran, 

As  he  stood  by  the  skipper's  side. 

'  But  noo  I  look  on  the  lights  o'  hame 
My  heart  sinks  sick  and  cauld— 

Lest  I  come  owre  late  for  her  love  or  blame, 
For  oh  !  my  mither  was  auld  ! 

4  For  her  een  were  dim  when  I  sail'd  awa', 

And  snaw  was  on  her  heid, 
And  I  fear — I  fear— after  mony  a  year, 

To  find  my  mither— deid  ! 

4  Sae  I  daurna  enter  the  toon  o'  Leith, 
Where  the  merry  yule-fires  flame, 

Lest  I  hear  the  tidings  o'  dule  and  death, 
Ere  I  enter  the  door  o'  hame. 

4  But  ye'll  let  them  row  me  to  yonner  shore 
Beyond  the  lights  o'  the  quay, 

And  I'll  climb  the  brae  to  the  cottage  door, 
A  hunnerd  yards  frae  the  sea. 

'  If  I  see  a  light  thro'  the  mirk  o'  night, 

I'll  ken  my  mither  is  there  ; 
I'll  keek,  maybe,  through  the  pane,  and  see 

Her  face  in  its  snawy  hair  ! 


'  The  face  sae  dear  that  for  mony  a  year 
I  hae  prayed  to  see  again, — 

O  a  mither's  face  has  a  holy  grace 
'Bune  a'  the  faces  o'  men  ! 

'  Then  I'll  enter  in  wi'  silent  feet, 

And  saftly  cry  her  name — 
And  I'll  see  the  dim  auld  een  grow  sweet 

Wi'  a  heavenly  welcome  hame  ! 

'And  I'll  cry,   "O  mither,  I'm  here,  I'm 
here! 

Forgie  me,  O  forgie  ! 
And  never  mair  shall  ye  ken  a  care  ! 
Your  son  shall  lea'  thee  never  mair 

To  sail  on  the  stormy  sea  !  "  ' 


They  row'd  him  to  the  lonely  shore 
Beyond  the  lights  of  the  quay, 

And  he  climb'd  the  brae  to  the  cottage  door 
A  hundred  yards  from  the  sea. 

He  saw  no  light  thro'  the  mirk  of  night, 
And  his  heart  sank  down  with  dread, 

'But  'tis  late,'  thought  he,   'and  she  lies, 

maybe, 
Soond  sleeping  in  her  bed  ! ' 

Half-way  he  paused,  for  the  blast  blew  keen, 
And  the  sea  roar'd  loud  below, 

And  he  turn'd  his  face  to  the  town-lights, 

seen 
Thro'  the  white  and  whirling  snow. 

The  lights  of  Leith  !  the  lights  of  Leith  ! 

How  they  flash'd  on  the  night-black 

bay, 
White  with  sullen  roar  on  the  rocky  shore 

The  waters  splash'd  their  spray  ! 

When  close  he  came  to  the  lonely  cot, 
He  paused  in  deeper  dread, — 

For  the  gleam  that  came  from  the  far-off 

flame 
Just  touch'd  the  walls  with  red  ; 

Thro'  the  doorway  dark  did  the  bleak  wind 

blow, 

The  windows  were  black  and  bare, 
And  the  house  was  floor 'd  with  the  cruel 

snow, 
And  roof 'd  with  the  empty  air ! 

1  O  mither,  mither ! '  he  moan'd  aloud, 
'  And  are  ye  deid  and  gane  ? 

K  K 


498 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


Hae  I  waited  in  tears  thro'  the  weary  years 
And  a'  in  vain,  in  vain  ?  ' 

He  stood  on  the  hearth,  while  the  sno\ 

swam  drear 

Between  the  roofless  walls — 
'  O   mither  !     mither  !     come    here,    com 

here, — 
"Pis  your  ain  son,  Robin,  calls  ! ' 

On  his  eager  ears,  as  he  stood  in  tears, 
There  came  a  faint  foot-tread — 

Then  out  of  the  storm  crept  a  woman's  form 
With  hooded  face  and  head. 

Like  a  black,  black  ghost  the  shape  cam 

near 

Till  he  heard  its  heavy  breath — 
•What  man,'  it  sighed,    'stands  sabbing 

here, 
In  the  wearifu'  hoose  o'  death  ? ' 

'  Come  hither,  come  hither,  whae'er  ye  be, 
He  answer'd  loud  and  clear — 

1 1  am  Robin  Sampson,  come  hame  frae  the 

sea, 
And  I  seek  my  mither  dear  ! ' 

'  O  Robin,  Robin,'  a  voice  cried  sobbing, 

'  O  Robin,  and  is  it  yersel'  ? 
I'm  Janet  Wylie,  lame  Janet  Wylie, 

Your  kissen,  frae  Marywell !  ' 

'O  Robin,  Robin,'  again  she  cried, 

1  O  Robin,  and  can  it  be  ? 
Ah,  better  far  had  the  wind  and  the  tide 

Ne'er  brought  ye  across  the  sea  ! ' 

Wailing  she  sank  on  the  snow-heap'd  hearth, 
And  rocked  her  body  in  pain — 

'  O  Robin,  Robin,'  she  cried  to  him  sobbing, 
Your  mither— your  mither— is  gane  ! ' 

The  lights  of  Leith !  the  lights  of  Leith  ! 

How  brightly  still  they  glow  ! 
The  faint  flame  falls  on  the  ruined  walls, 

On  the  hearthstone  heap'd  in  snow  ! 

4  O  Janet,  Janet,  kind  cousin  Janet, 

If  ever  ye  cared  for  me, 
Noo  let  me  hear  o'  my  mither  dear, 

And  hoo  she  cam'  to  dee ! ' 

Wailing  she  lifted  her  weeping  face, 
And  answer'd  in  soul's  despair — 

'  O  Robin,  awa'  frae  the  wicked  place — 
Awa'— and  ask  nae  mair ! ' 


But  he  grasp'd  her  arm  with  a  grip  of 
And  cried  '  O  Janet,  speak  ! ' 

1 0  Robin  dear,  dinna  seek  to  hear, 
For  oh  !  your  heart  must  breik  ! ' 

But  he  pressed  her  more,  and  he  pleaded  sore, 
Till  at  last  the  tale  was  told, 

And  he  listened  on,  till  the  tale  was  done, 
Like  a  man  death-struck  and  cold. 


'  0  Robin  dear,  when  ye  sail'd  awa', 

That  last  time,  on  the  sea, 
We  knew  her  heart  was  breiking  in  twa, 

And  we  thought  that  she  wad  dee. 

'  But  after  a  while  she  forced  a  smile — 
"  I'll  greet  nae  mair,"  said  she, 

1 '  But  I'll  wait  and  pray  that  the  Lord,  ae  day, 
May  bring  him  again  to  me  ! 

The  Lord  is  guid,  and  Robin  my  son 
As  kind  as  a  bairn  can  be- 
Aye  true  as  steel,  and  he  Iocs  me  weel, 
Tho'  he's  gane  across  the  sea." 

1 0  Robin,  Robin,  baith  late  and  air' 
She  prayed  and  prayed  for  thee, 

But  evermair  when  the  blast  blew  sair, 
She  was  langest  on  her  knee  ! ' 

The  lights  of  Leith  !  the  lights  of  Leith  ! 

That  flame  o'er  sea  and  skies  ! 
How  bright  they  glow! -while    the    salt 
tears  flow 

From  that  bearded  mariner's  eyes. 

But,  Robin,  your  mither  wasauld  and  pair. 

And  the  season's  cauld  and  keen  ; 
The  white,  white  snaw  was  on  her  hair, 
The  frost  film  ower  her  een. 

And  here  in  the  hut  beside  the  sea, 
The  pair  auld  wife  did  dwell  - 
Her  only  kin  were  my  mither  and  me, 
And  we  were  as  pair's  hersel'. 

She  leeved  on  a  handfu'  o'  barley  meal, 
A  drink  frae  the  spring  sae  cauld— 

)  Robin,  Robin,  a  heart  o'  steel 

Might  bleed  for  the  weak  and  auld  ! 

In  twa  she  was  bent,  on  a  staff  she  leant, 

Wi1  ragged  duds  for  claise, 
A.nd  wearifu'  up  and  doon  she  went, 
Gath'ring  her  sticks  and  straes. 


THE  LIGHTS   OF  LEITIL 


499 


'  And  the  weans  wad  thra*g  as  she  creepit 

alang, 

And  point,  and  cry  sae  shrill — 
"  There's  Grannie  Sampson,"  was  ever  their 

sang, 
"  The  wicked  witch  o'  the  hill !  " 

'  Ah,  mony's  the  time  up  the  hill  she'd  climb, 
While  the  imps  wad  scream  and  craw — 

A.t  the  door  she'd  stand,  wi'  her  staff  in  hand, 
And  angrily  screech  them  awa'  ! 

'  Then  wi'  feeble  feet  creeping  ben,  she'd  greet 
That  the  warld  misca'd  her  sae, 

And  wi'  face  as  white  as  the  winding-sheet, 
She'd  kneel  by  the  bed,  and  pray. 

'O  Robin,  Robin,  she  prayed  for  him 
Wha  sail'd  in  the  wild  sea-rack, 

And  the  tears  wad  drap  frae  her  een  sae  dim, 
As  she  prayed  for  her  bairn  to  come 
back! 

'  Then  whiles  .  .  .  when  she  thought  nae 

folk  were  near  .  .  . 
(O  Robin,  she  thought  nae  harm  ! 
But  stoop  your  heid,  lest  they  hear,  lest  they 

hear  !) 
She  tried  ...  an  auld-farrant  charm. 

'  A  charm  aft  tried  in  the  ingleside 

When  bairns  are  blythesome  and  free, 

A  charm  (come  near,  lest  they  hear,  lest 

they  hear !) 
To  bring  her  boy  hame  from  the  sea  ! 

'  And  the  auld  black  cat  at  her  elbow  sat, 
(The  cat  you  gied  her  yersel') 

And  the  folk,  keeking  in  thro'  the  pane,  saw 

a  sin, 
And  thought  she  was  weaving  a  spell ! ' 

The  lights  of  Leith  !  the  lights  of  Leith  ! 

They  flame  on  the  wintry  gale  ! 
With  sore  drawn  breath,  and  a  face  like 
death, 

He  hearks  to  the  gruesome  tale  ! 

1 0  Robin,  Robin,  I  kenna  hoo 

The  lee  was  faither'd  first, 
But  (whisper  again,  lest  they  ken,  lest  they 
ken!) 

They  thought  the  puir  body  accurst ! 

'  They  thought  the  spell  had  been  wrought 

in  Hell, 
To  kill  and  curse  and  blight, 


They  thought  she  flew,  when  naebody  knew, 
To  a  Sabbath  o'  fiends,  ilk  night ! 

'  Then  ane  whose  corn  had  wither'd  ae  morn, 
And  ane  whose  kye  sicken' d  doon, 

Crept,  scared  and  pale,  wi'  the  leein'  tale, 
To  the  meenisters,  up  the  toon. 

'  Noo,   Robin,  jest  then,  King  Jamie  the 

King 

Was  oot  at  sea  in  his  bark, 
And  the  bark  nigh  sank  unner,  wi'  fire- 

flaught  and  thunner, 
And  they  thought — the   Deil  was  at 
wark  ! 

1  The  King  cam'  to  land,  and  loup'd  on  the 
strand, 

Pale  as  a  ghaist  and  afraid, 
Wi'  courtiers  and  clergy,  awildfearfu'  band, 

He  ran  to  the  kirk,  and  prayed, 

1  Then  the  clergy  made  oot  'twas  witchcraft, 

nae  doot, 

And  searchit  up  and  doon, 
And  .  .  .  foond  your  auld  mither  (wae's 

me  !)  and  twa  ither, 
And  dragg'd  them  up  to  the  toon  ! 

'  O  Robin,  dear  Robin,  hearken  nae  mair ! ' 
'  Speak  on,  I'll  heark  to  the  en' ! ' 

1  O  Robin,  Robin,  the  sea  oot  there 
Is  kinder  than  cruel  men  ! 

'  They  took  her  before  King  Jamie  the  King, 
Whaur  he  sat  wi'  sceptre  and  croon, 

And  the  cooard  courtiers  stood  in  a  ring, 
And  the  meenisters  gather'd  roon'. 

'  They  bade  her  tell  she  had  wrought  the  spell 

That  made  the  tempest  blaw  ; 
They  strippit  her  bare  as  a  naked  bairn, 
They  tried  her  wi'  pincers  and  heated  aim, 
Till  she  shriek'd  and  swoon'd  awa' ! 

'  O  Robin,  Robin,  the  King  sat  there, 
While  the  cruel  deed  was  done, 

And  the  clergy  o'  Christ  ne'er  bade  him  spare 
For  the  sake  o'  God's  ain  Son ! .  .  .  . 

The  lights  of  Leith  !  the  lights  of  Leith  ! 

Like  Hell's  own  lights  they  glow 
While  the  sailor  stands,  with  his  trembling 
hands 

Prest  hard  on  his  heart  in  woe ! 

K.K2 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


- 


•  O  Robin,  Robin  .  .  .  they  doom'd  her  to 

burn  .  .  . 

Doon  yonner  upon  the  quay  .  .  . 
ihis  night  was  the  night  .  .  .  see  the  light ! 

see  the  light ! 
How  it  burns  by  the  side  of  the  sea ! ' 

,  .  .  She  paused  with  a  moan.  ...  He 
had  left  her  alone, 

And  rushing  through  drift  and  snow, 
Down  the  side  of  the  wintry  hill  he  had  flown, 

His  eyes  on  the  lights  below  ! 


The  lights  of  Leith  !  the  lights  of  Leith  ! 

They  flame  on  the  eyes  of  the  crowd, 
Around,  up  and  down,  move  the  folk  of  the 
town, 

While  the  bells  of  the  kirk  peal  aloud ! 

High  up  on  the  quay,  blaze  the  balefires, 

and  see  ! 

Three  stakes  are  deep  set  in  the  ground, 
To  each  stake  smear'd  with  pitch  clings  the 

corpse  of  a  witch, 
With  the  fire  flaming  redly  around ! 

What  madman  is  he  who  leaps  in  where 
they  gleam, 

Close,  close,  to  the  centremost  form  ? 
'Omither,  Omither!'  he  cries,  with  a  scream, 

That  rings  thro'  the  heart  of  the  storm ! 

He  can  see  the  white  hair  snowing  down 

thro'  the  glare, 

The  white  face  upraised  to  the  skies — 
Then  the  cruel  red  blaze  blots  the  thing 

from  his  gaze, 
And  he  falls  on  his  face, — and  dies. 


The  lights  of  Leith  !  the  lights  of  Leith  ! 

See,  see  !  they  are  flaming  still ! 
Thro*  the  clouds  of  the  past  their  flame  is  cast, 

While  the  Sabbath  bells  ring  shrill ! 

The  lights  of  Leith  !  the  lights  of  Leith  ! 

They'll  burn  till  the  Judgment  Day! 
Till  the  Church's  curse  and  the  monarch's 

shame, 
And  the  sin  that  slew  in  the  Blessed  Name, 

Are  burned  and  purg'd  away ! 

NOTE. — The  foundation  of  this  ballad  is  his. 
torical,  more  particularly  the  part  taken  by  the 
enlightened  pedant,  James  VI.  of  Scotland,  who, 


on  h's  accession  to  the  English  throne,  procured 
the  infamous  statute  against  witchcraft,  which 
actually  remained  unrepealed  till  1736,  and  even 
then  was  repealed  under  strong  protest  from  the 
Scottish  clergy  !  One  traveller,  as  late  as  1664, 
casually  notices  the  fact  of  having  seen  nine 
witches  burning  together  at  Leith,  and  in  1678, 
nine  others  were  condemned  in  a  single  day.— 
R.  B. 


THE    WEDDING  OF  SHON 
MACLEAN. 

A  BAGPIPE  MELODY. 

To  the  wedding  of  Shon  Maclean, 

Twenty  Pipers  together 
Came  in  the  wind  and  the  rain 

Playing  across  the  heather ; 
Backward  their  ribbons  flew, 
Blast  upon  blast  they  blew, 
Each  clad  in  tartan  new, 

Bonnet,  and  blackcock  feather  : 
And  every  Piper  was  fou, 1 

Twenty  Pipers  together !  .  .  . 

He's  but  a  Sassenach  blind  and  vain 
Who  never  heard  of  Shon  Maclean — 
The  Duke's  own  Piper,  called  'Shon  the  Fair,' 
From  his  freckled  skin  and  his  fiery  hair. 
Father  and  son,  since  the  world's  creation, 
The  Macleans  had  followed  this  occupation, 
And  played  the  pibroch  to  fire  the  Clan 
Since  the  first  Duke  came  and  the  Earth 

began. 
Like  the  whistling  of  birds,  like  the  humming 

of  bees, 

Like  the  sough  of  the  south-wind  in  the  trees, 
Like  the  singing  of  angels,  the  playing  of 

shawms, 

Like  Ocean  itself  with  its  storms  and  its  calms, 
Were  the  strains  of  Shon,  when  with  cheeks 

aflame 

He  blew  a  blast  thro'  the  pipes  of  fame. 
At  last,  in  the  prime  of  his  playing  life, 
The  spirit  moved  him  to  take  a  wife — 
A  lassie  with  eyes  of  Highland  blue, 
Who  loved  the  pipes  and  the  Piper  too, 
And  danced  to  the  sound,  with  a  foot  and  a 

leg 

White  as  a  lily  and  smooth  as  an  egg. 
So,  twenty  Pipers  were  coming  together 

1  Pronounce^— i.e.  '  half  seas  over,'  intoxi- 
cated. 


THE  WEDDING  OF  SHON  MACLEAN. 


5°' 


O'er  the  moor  and  across  the  heather, 

All  in  the  wind  and  the  rain : 
Twenty  Pipers  so  brawly  dressed 
Were  flocking  in  from  the  east  and  west, 
To  bless  the  bedding  and  blow  their  best 
At  the  wedding  of  Shon  Maclean. 

At  the  wedding  of  Shon  Maclean 

'Twas  wet  and  windy  weather  ! 
Yet,  thro'  the  wind  and  the  rain 

Came  twenty  Pipers  together  ! 
Earach  and  Dougal  Dhu, 
Sandy  of  Isla  too, 
Each  with  the  bonnet  o'  blue, 

Tartan,  and  blackcock  feather  : 
And  every  Piper  was  fou, 

Twenty  Pipers  together ! 

The  knot  was  tied,  the  blessing  said, 
Shon  was  married,  the  feast  was  spread. 
At  the  head  of  the  table  sat,  huge  and  hoar, 
Strong  Sandy  of  Isla,  age  fourscore, 
Whisker'd,  grey  as  a  Haskeir  seal, 
And  clad  in  crimson  from  head  to  heel. 
Beneath  and  round  him  in  their  degree 
Gathered  the  men  of  minstrelsie, 
With  keepers,  gillies,  and  lads  and  lasses, 
Mingling  voices,  and  jingling  glasses. 
At  soup  and  haggis,  at  roast  and  boil'd, 
Awhile  the  happy  gathering  toil'd, — 
While  Shon  and  Jean  at  the  table  ends 
Shook    hands    with    a   hundred    of    their 

friends. — 

Then  came  a  hush.     Thro'  the  open  door 
A  wee  bright  form  flash'd  on  the  floor, — 
The  Duke  himself,  in  the  kilt  and  plaid, 
With  slim  soft  knees,  like  the  knees  of  a  maid. 
And  he  took  a  glass,  and  he  cried  out  plain 
1 1  drink  to  the  health  of  Shon  Maclean  ! 
To  Shon  the  Piper  and  Jean  his  wife, 
A  clean  fireside  and  a  merry  life  ! ' 
Then  out  he  slipt,  and  each  man  sprang 
To  his  feet,  and  with  '  hooch '  the  chamber 

rang! 

'  Clear  the  tables  ! '  shriek' d  out  one — 
A  leap,  a  scramble, — and  it  was  done  ! 
And  then  the  Pipers  all  in  a  row 
Tuned  their  pipes  and  began  to  blow, 

While  all  to  dance  stood  fain  : 
Sandy  of  Isia  and  Earach  More, 
Dougal  Dhu  from  Kinflannan  shore, 
Played  up  the  company  on  the  floor 

At  the  wedding  of  Shon  Maclean. 


At  the  wedding  of  Shon  Maclean, 

Twenty  Pipers  together 
Stood  up,  while  all  their  train 

Ceased  to  clatter  and  blether. 
Full  of  the  mountain-dew, 
First  in  their  pipes  they  blew, 
Mighty  of  bone  and  thew, 

Red-cheek'd,  with  lungs  of  leather : 
And  every  Piper  was  fou, 

Twenty  Pipers  together ! 

Who  led  the  dance  ?     In  pomp  and  pride 
The  Duke  himself  led  out  the  Bride  ! 
Great  was  the  joy  of  each  beholder, 
For  the  wee  Duke  only  reach' d  her  shoulder ; 
And  they  danced,  and  turned,  when  the  reel 

began, 

Like  a  giantess  and  a  fairie  man  ! 
But  like  an  earthquake  was  the  din 
When  Shon  himself  led  the  Duchess  in  ! 
And  she  took  her  place  before  him  there, 
Like  a  white  mouse  dancing  with  a  bear  ! 
So  trim  and  tiny,  so  slim  and  sweet, 
Her  blue  eyes  watching  Shon's  great  feet, 
With  a  smile  that  could  not  be  resisted, 
She  jigged,  and  jumped,  and  twirl'd,  and 

twisted ! 

Sandy  of  Isla  led  off  the  reel, 
The  Duke  began  it  with  toe  and  heel, 

Then  all  join'd  in  amain  ; 
Twenty  Pipers  ranged  in  a  row, 
From  squinting  Shamus  to  lame  Kilcroe, 
Their  cheeks  like  crimson,  began  to  blow, 

At  the  wedding  of  Shon  Maclean. 

At  the  wedding  of  Shon  Maclean 

They  blew  with  lungs  of  leather, 
And  blithesome  was  the  strain 

Those  Pipers  played  together ! 
Moist  with  the  mountain-dew, 
Mighty  of  bone  and  thew, 
Each  with  the  bonnet  o'  blue, 

Tartan,  and  blackcock  feather  : 
And  every  Piper  was  fou, 

Twenty  Pipers  together ! 

Oh  for  a  wizard's  tongue  to  tell 

Of  all  the  wonders  that  befell ! 

Of  how  the  Duke,  when  the  first  stave  died, 

Reached  up  on  tiptoe  to  kiss  the  Bride, 

While  Sandy's  pipes,  as  their  mouths  were 

meeting, 
Skirl' d,  and  set  every  heart  a-beating  ! 


502 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


Then  Shon  took  the  pipes !  and  all  was  still, 
As  silently  he  the  bags  did  fill, 
With  flaming  cheeks  and  round  bright  eyes, 
Till  the  first  faint  music  began  to  rise. 
Like  a  thousand  laverocks  singing  in  tune, 
Like  countless  corn-craiks  under  the  moon, 
Like  the  smack  of  kisses,  like  sweet  bells 

ringing, 

Like  a  mermaid's  harp,  or  a  kelpie  singing, 
Blew  the  pipes  of  Shon  ;  and  the  witching 

strain 

Was  the  gathering  song  of  the  Clan  Maclean  ! 
Then  slowly,  softly,  at  his  side, 
All  the  Pipers  around  replied, 
And  swelled  the  solemn  strain  : 
The  hearts  of  all  were  proud  and  light, 
To  hear  the  music,  to  see  the  sight, 
And  the  Duke's  own  eyes  were  dim  that  night, 
At  the  wedding  of  Shon  Maclean. 

So  to  honour  the  Clan  Maclean 

Straight  they  began  to  gather, 
Blowing  the  wild  refrain, 

'  Blue  bonnets  across  the  heather  ! ' 
They  stamp'd,  they  strutted,  they  blew  ; 
They  shriek' d ;  like  cocks  they  crew ; 
Blowing  the  notes  out  true, 

With  wonderful  lungs  of  leather : 
And  every  Piper  was  fou, 

Twenty  Pipers  together ! 

When  the  Duke  and  Duchess  went  away 
The  dance  grew  mad  and  the  guests  grew  gay ; 
Man  and  maiden,  face  to  face, 
Leapt  and  footed  and  scream'd  apace  ! 
Round  and  round  the  dancers  whirl'd, 
Shriller,  louder,  the  Pipers  skirl'd, 
Till  the  soul  seem'd  swooning  into  sound, 
And  all  creation  was  whirling  round ! 
Then,  in  a  pause  of  the  dance  and  glee, 
The  Pipers,  ceasing  their  minstrelsie, 
Draining  the  glass  in  groups  did  stand, 
And  passed  the  sneesh-box  l  from  hand  to 

hand. 

Sandy  of  Isla,  with  locks  of  snow, 
Squinting  Shamus,  blind  Kilmahoe, 
Finlay  Beg,  and  Earach  More, 
Dougal  Dhu  of  Kilflannan  shore — 
All  the  Pipers,  black,  yellow,  and  green, 
All  the  colours  that  ever  were  seen, 
All  the  Pipers  of  all  the  Macs, 
Gather'd  together  and  took  their  cracks.2 


Snuff-box. 


Conversed  sociably. 


Then  (no  man  knows  how  the  thing  befell, 

For  none  was  sober  enough  to  tell) 

These  heavenly  Pipers  from  twenty  places 

Began  disputing  with  crimson  faces  ; 

Each  asserting,  like  one  demented, 

The  claims  of  the  Clan  he  represented. 

In  vain  grey  Sandy  of  Isla  strove 

To  soothe  their  struggle  with  words  of  love, 

Asserting  there,  like  a  gentleman, 

The  superior  claims  of  his  own  great  Clan  ; 

Then,  rinding  to  reason  is  despair, 

He  seizes  his  pipes  and  he  plays  an  air — 

The  gathering  tune  of  his  Clan — and  tries 

To  drown  in  music  the  shrieks  and  cries  ! 

Heavens !    Every  Piper,  grown  mad  with  ire, 

Seizes  his  pipes  with  a  fierce  desire, 

And  blowing  madly,  with  skirl  and  squeak, 

Begins  his  particular  tune  to  shriek  ! 

Up  and  down  the  gamut  they  go, 

Twenty  Pipers,  all  in  a  row, 

Each  with  a  different  strain  ! 
Each  tries  hard  to  drown  the  first, 
I  Each  blows  louder  till  like  to  burst. 
Thus  were  the  tunes  of  the  Clans  rehearst 
At  the  wedding  of  Shon  Maclean  ! 

At  the  wedding  of  Shon  Maclean, 

Twenty  Pipers  together, 
Blowing  with  might  and  main, 

Thro'  wonderful  lungs  of  leather  ! 
Wild  was  the  hullabaloo  ! 
They  stamp'd,  they  scream'd,  they  crew ! 
Twenty  strong  blasts  they  blew, 

Holding  the  heart  in  tether  : 
And  every  Piper  was  fou, 

Twenty  Pipers  together ! 

A  storm  of  music !    Like  wild  sleuth-hounds 
Contending  together,  were  the  sounds  ! 
At  last  a  bevy  of  Eve's  bright  daughters 
Pour'd  oil — that's  whisky— upon  the  waters ; 
And  after  another  dram  wen,  down 
The  Pipers  chuckled  and  ceased  to  frown, 
Embraced  like  brothers  anr  kindred  spirits, 
And  fully  admitted  each  other's  merits. 
All  bliss  must  end  !     For  now  the  Bride 
Was  looking  weary  and  heavy-eyed, 
And  soon  she  stole  from  the  drinking  chorus, 
While   the  company   settled  to  deoch-an- 

dorus.5 

One  hour — another — took  its  flight — 
The  clock  struck  twelve — the  dead  of  night — 
8  The  parting  glass  ;  lit.  the  cup  at  the  door 


THE    WEDDING   OF  SHON  MACLEAN— HANS    VOGEL. 


503 


And  still  the  Bride  like  a  rose  so  red 
Lay  lonely  up  in  the  bridal  bed. 
At  half-past  two  the  Bridegroom,  Shon, 
Dropt  on  the  table  as  heavy  as  stone, 
But  four  strong  Pipers  across  the  floor 
Carried  him  up  to  the  bridal  door, 
Push'd  him  in  at  the  open  portal, 
And  left  him  snoring,  serene  and  mortal ! 
The  small  stars  twinkled  over  the  heather, 
As  the  Pipers  wandered  away  together, 
But  one  by  one  on  the  journey  dropt, 
Clutching  his  pipes,  and  there  he  stopt ! 
One  by  one  on  the  dark  hillside 
Each  faint  blast  of  the  bagpipes  died, 

Amid  the  wind  and  the  rain  ! 
And  the  twenty  Pipers  at  break  of  day 
In  twenty  different  bogholes  lay, 
Serenely  sleeping  upon  their  way 

From  the  wedding  of  Shon  Maclean ! 


HANS    VOGEL. 

AN    EPISODE    OF    THE    FRANCO-PRUSSIAN 
WAR. 

'Ein  achter  Deutscher  Mann    mag  keinen 
Franzen  leiden  1 ' — BRANDER  in  Faust. 

THE  fight  is  o'er,  the  day  is  done, 

And  thro"  the  clouds  o'erhead 
The  fingers  of  the  setting  sun 

Are  pointing  down  blood-red, — 
Beneath,  on  the  white  battlefield, 

Lie  strewn  the  drifts  of  dead. 

No  breath,  no  stir ;  but  everywhere 

The  cold  Frost  crawleth  slow, 
And  Frank  and  Teuton  side  by  side 

Lie  stiffening  in  the  snow, — 
While  piteously  each  marble  face 

Gleams  in  the  ruby  glow. 

No  sound  ;  but  yonder  midst  the  dead 
There  stands  one  steed  snow-white, 

And  clinging  to  its  chilly  mane, 
Half  swooning,  yet  upright, 

Its  rider  totters,  breathing  hard, 
Bareheaded  in  the  light ! 

Hans  Vogel.     Spectacles  on  nose, 

He  gasps  and  gazes  round — 
He  shivers  as  his  eyes  survey 

That  wintry  battle-ground — 
Then,  parch'd  with  thirst  and  chill  with  cold, 

He  sinks,  without  a  sound, 


Berore  his  vision  as  he  lies 
There  gleams  a  quaint  old  Town, 

He  sees  the  students  in  the  street 
Swaggering  up  and  down, 

While  at  a  casement  sits  a  Maid 
In  clean  white  cap  and  gown. 

Hans  Vogel  thinks,  '  My  time  hath  come  ! 

Ne'er  shall  these  eyes  of  mine 
Behold  poor  Annchen,  or  the  trees 

Of  dear  old  Ehbrenstein  ! ' 
He  smacks  his  lips,  '  Mein  Gott  I  for  one 

Deep  draught  of  Rhenish  wine  ! ' 

Then  swift  as  thought  his  wild  eyes  gleam 

On  something  at  his  side — 
He  stirs— he  glares — he  sits  erect — 

He  grips  it,  eager-eyed  : 
A  Flask  it  is,  some  friend  or  foe 

Hath  dropt  there  ere  he  died ! 

To  God  he  mutters  now  a  prayer, 

Quaking  in  every  limb  ; 
Trembling  he  holds  it  to  the  light  !— 

"Tis  full  unto  the  brim ! 
A  flask,  a  brimming  flask  of  wine ! 

And  God  hath  sent  it  him  ! 

Hans  Vogel's  heart  leaps  up  in  joy, 
'  Dem  Himmel  set  Dank  /'  he  cries — 

Then  pursing  out  his  thirsty  lips 
Prepares  to  quaff  his  prize,  — 

When  lo  !  a  sound — he  starts— and  meets 
A  pair  of  burning  eyes  ! 

Propt  on  a  bed  of  comrades  dead, 
His  faint  breath  swiftly  flying, 

His  breast  torn  open  by  a  shell, 
A  Grenadier  is  lying  : — 

Grim  as  a  wolf,  with  gleaming  fangs, 
The  Frenchman  glareth,  dying  ! 

White  is  his  hair,  his  features  worn 

With  many  a  wild  campaign, 
He  rocks  his  head  from  side  to  side 

Like  to  a  beast  in  pain — 
He  groans  athirst,  with  open  mouth, 

Again  and  yet  again. 

Hans  Vogel,  in  the  act  to  drink 

And  render  God  due  praise, 
Drops  down  his  fever'd  hand  in  doubt 

And  pauses  in  amaze, 
For  on  the  flask  that  Grenadier 

Fixeth  his  thirsty  gaze  ! 


5°4 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


Hans  Vogel  smiles,  '  Here  lieth  one 
Whose  need  is  more  than  mine  ! ' 

Then,  crawling  over  to  his  foe, 
'  Look,  Frenchman,  here  is  wine  ! 

And  by  the  God  that  made  us  both 
Shall  every  drop  be  thine  ! ' 

Hast  thou  beheld  a  dying  boar, 
Struck  bleeding  to  the  ground, 

Spring  with  a  last  expiring  throe 
To  rip  the  foremost  hound  ? 

Terrible,  fatal,  pitiless, 

It  slays  with  one  swift  bound. 

Ev'n  so  that  grizzly  wolf  of  war, 

With  eyes  of  hate  and  ire, 
Stirs  as  he  lies,  and  on  the  ground 

Gropes  with  a  dark  desire, — 
Then  lifts  a  loaded  carbine  up, 

And  lo  !  one  flash  of  fire  ! 

A  flash— a  crash  !     Hans  Vogel  still 

Is  kneeling  on  his  knee, 
His  heart  is  beating  quick,  his  face 

Is  pale  as  man's  can  be  ; 
The  ball  just  grazed  his  bleeding  brow, — 

'  Potstausend  /'  murmureth  he. 

Hans  frowns  ;  and  raising  to  his  lips 

The  flask,  begins  to  quaff ; 
Then  holds  it  to  the  fading  light 

With  sly  and  cynic  laugh. 
Deep  is  his  drought — sweet  is  the  wine  — 

And  he  hath  drunk  the  half  ! 

But  now  he  glanceth  once  again 
Where  that  grim  Frenchman  lies — 

Gasping  still  waits  that  wolf  of  war 
Like  to  a  beast  that  dies  — 

He  groans  athirst,  with  open  mouth, 
And  slowly  glazing  eyes. 

Hans  Vogel  smiles  ;  unto  his  foe 

Again  now  totters  he — 
So  spent  now  is  that  wolf  of  war 

He  scarce  can  hear  or  see. 
Hans  Vogel  holds  his  hand,  and  takes 

His  head  upon  his  knee  ! 

Then  down  the  dying  Frenchman's  throat 

He  sends  the  liquor  fine : 
1  Half  yet  remains,  old  boy,'  he  cries, 

While  pouring  down  the  wine — 
1  Hadst  thou  not  play'd  me  such  a  trick, 

It  might  have  all  been  thine  ! ' 


Hans  Vogel  speaketh  in  the  tongue 

Of  his  good  Fatherland — 
The  Frenchman  hears  an  alien  sound 

And  cannot  understand, 
But  he  can  taste  the  warm  red  wine 

And  feel  the  kindly  hand. 

See  !  looking  in  Hans  Vogel's  face 

He  stirs  his  grizzly  head — 
Up,  smiling,  goes  the  grim  moustache 

O'er  cheeks  as  grey  as  lead— 
With  one  last  glimmer  of  the  eyes, 

He  smiles,— and  he  is  dead. 


PHIL  BLOODS  LEAP. 

A  TALE  OF  THE  GOLD-SEEKERS. 

'  THERE'S  some  think  Injins  pison  .  .  .'  [It 

was  Parson  Pete  who  spoke, 
As  we  sat  there,  in  the  camp-fire  glare,  like 

shadows  among  the  smoke. 
'Twas  the  dead  of  night,  and  in  the  light 

our  faces  burn'd  bright  red, 
And  the  wind  all  round  made  a  screeching 

sound,  and  the  pines  roared  overhead. 

Ay,  Parson  Pete  was  talking;  we  called  him 

Parson  Pete, 
For  you  must  learn  he'd  a  talking  turn,  and 

handled  things  so  neat ; 
He'd  a  preaching  style,  and  a  winning  smile, 

and,  when  all  talk  was  spent, 
Six-shooter  had  he,  and  a  sharp  bowie,  to 

p'int  his  argyment. 

Some  one  had  spoke  of  the  Injin  folk,  and 

we  had  a  guess,  you  bet, 
They  might  be  creeping,   while   we  were 

sleeping,  to  catch  us  in  the  net  ; 
And  half  were  asleep  and  snoring  deep, 

while  the  others  vigil  kept, 
But  devil  a  one  let  go  his  gun,  whether  he 

woke  or  slept.] 

'  There's  some  think  Injins  pison,  and  others 

count  "em  scum, 
And  night  and  day  they  are  melting  away, 

clean  into  Kingdom  Come  ; 
But  don't  you  go  and  make  mistakes,  like 

many  dern'd  fools  I've  known, 
For  dirt  is  dirt,  and  snakes  is  snakes,  but 

an  Injin's  flesh  and  bone  ! 


PHIL  B LOOPS  LEAP. 


505 


We  were  seeking  gold  in  the  Texan  hold, 

and  we'd  had  a  blaze  of  luck, 
More  rich  and  rare  the  stuff  ran  there  at 

every  foot  we  struck  ; 
Like  men  gone  wild  we  t'iled  and  t'iled, 

and  never  seemed  to  tire, 
The  hot  sun  beamed,  and  our  faces  streamed 

with  the  sweat  of  a  mad  desire. 

I  was  Captain  then  of  the  mining  men,  and 

I  had  a  precious  life, 
For  a  wilder  set  I  never  met  at  derringer  and 

knife  ; 
Nigh  every  day  there  was  some  new  fray,  a 

bullet  in  some  one's  brain, 
And  the  viciousest  brute  to  stab  and  to 

shoot,  was  an  Imp  of  Hell  from  Maine. 

Phil  Blood.     Well,  he  was  six  foot  three, 

with  a  squint  to  make  you  skeer'd, 
His  face  all  scabb'd,  and  twisted  and  stabb'd, 

with  carroty  hair  and  beard  ; 
Sour  as  the  drink  in  Bitter  Chink,  sharp  as 

a  grizzly's  squeal, 
Limp  in  one  leg,  for  a  leaden  egg  had 

nick'd  him  in  the  heel. 

No  beauty  was  he,  but  a  sight  to  see,  all 

stript  to  the  waist  and  bare, 
With  his  grim-set  jaws,  and  his  panther 

paws,  and  his  hawk's  eye  all  aglare  ; 
With  pick  and  spade  in  sun  and  shade  he 

labour'd  like  darnation, 
But  when  his  spell  was  over, — well !  he  was 

fond  of  his  recreation  ! 

And  being  a  crusty  kind  of  cuss,  the  only 

sport  he  had, 
When  work  was  over,  seemed  to  us  a  bit 

too  rough  and  bad  ; 
For  to  put  some  lead  in  a  comrade's  head 

was  the  greatest  fun  in  life, 
And  the  sharpest  joke  he  was  known  to 

poke  was  the  p'int  of  his  precious  knife. 

But  game  to  the  bone  was  Phil,  I'll  own, 

and  he  always  fought  most  fair, 
With  as  good  a  will  to  be  killed  as  kill, 

true  grit  as  any  there  : 
Of  honour  too,  like  me  or  you,  he'd  a  scent, 

though  not  so  keen, 
Would  rather  be  riddled  thro'  and  thro', 

than  do  what  he  thought  mean. 


But  his  eddication  to  his  ruination  had  net 

been  over  nice, 
And  his  stupid  skull  was  choking  full  of 

vulgar  prejudice ; 
With  anything  white  he'd  drink,  or  he'd 

fight  in  fair  and  open  fray  ; 
Buc  to  murder  and  kill  was  his  wicked  will, 

if  an  Injin  came  his  way  ! 

'  A  sarpent's  hide  has  pison  inside,  and  an 

Injin's  heart's  the  same, 
If  he  seems  your  friend  for  to  gain  his  end, 

look  out  for  the  sarpent's  game  ; 
Of  the  snakes  that  crawl,  the  worst  of  all  is 

the  snake  in  a  skin  of  red, 
A  spotted  Snake,  and  no  mistake  ! '  that's 

what  he  always  said. 

Well,  we'd  jest  struck  our  bit  of  luck,  and 

were  wild  as  raving  men, 
When  who  should  stray  to  our  camp  one 

day,  but  Black  Panther,  the  Cheyenne ; 
Drest  like  a  Christian,  all  a-grin,  the  old 

one  joins  our  band, 
And  tho'  the  rest  look'd  black  as  sin,  he 

shakes  me  by  the  hand. 

Now,  the  poor  old  cuss  had  been  good  to 

us,  and  I  knew  that  he  was  true, — 
I'd  have  trusted  him  with  life  and  limb  as 

soon  as  I'd  trust  you  ; 
For  tho'  his  wit  was  gone  a  bit,  and  he 

drank  like  any  fish, 
His  heart  was  kind,  he  was  well-inclined, 

as  even  a  white  could  wish. 

Food  had  got  low,  for  we  didn't  know  the 

run  of  the  hunting-ground, 
And  our  hunters  were  sick,  when,  jest  in 

the  nick,  the  friend  in  need  was  found  ; 
For  he  knew  the  place  like  his  mother's  face 

(or  better,  a  heap,  you'd  say, 
Since  she  was  a  squaw  of  the  roaming  race, 

and  himself  a  cast-away). 

Well,  I  took  the  Panther  into  camp,  and 

the  critter  was  well  content, 
And  off  with  him,  on  the  hunting  tramp, 

next  day  our  hunters  went, 
And  I  reckon  that  day  and  the  next  we 

didn't  want  for  food, 
And  only  one  in  the  camp  looked  vext — that 

Imp  of  Hell,  Phil  Blood, 


5o6 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


Nothing  would  please  his  contrairy  idees  ! 

an  Injin  made  him  rile  ! 
He  didn't  speak,  but  I  saw  on  his  cheek  a 

kind  of  an  ugly  smile  ; 
And  I  knew  his  skin  was  hatching  sin,  and 

I  kept  the  Panther  apart, 
For  the  Injin  he  was  too  blind  to  see  the 

dirt  in  a  white  man's  heart ! 

Well,  one  fine  day,  we  a-resting  lay  at  noon- 
time by  the  creek, 

The  red  sun  blazed,  and  we  felt  half-dazed, 
too  beat  to  stir  or  speak  ; 

'Neath  the  alder  trees  we  stretched  at  ease, 
and  we  couldn't  see  the  sky, 

For  the  lian -flowers  in  bright  blue  showers 
hung  through  the  branches  high. 

It  was  like  the  gleam  of  a  fairy-dream,  and 

I  felt  like  earth's  first  Man, 
In  an  Eden  bower  with  the  yellow  flower  of 

a  cactus  for  a  fan  ; 
Oranges,  peaches,  grapes,  and  figs,  cluster'd, 

ripen 'd,  and  fell, 
And  the  cedar  scent  was  pleasant,  blent 

with  the  soothing  "cacia  smelL 

The  squirrels  red  ran  overhead,  and  I  saw 

the  lizards  creep, 
And  the  woodpecker  bright  with  the  chest 

so  white  tapt  like  a  sound  in  sleep  ; 
I  dreamed  and  dozed  with  eyes  half-closed, 

and  felt  like  a  three-year  child, 
And,  a  plantain  blade  on  his  brow  for  a 

shade,  even  Phil  Blood  look'd  mild. 

Well,  back,  jest  then,   came  our  hunting 

men,  with  the  Panther  at  their  head, 
Full  of  his  fun  was  every  one,   and  the 

Panther's  eyes  were  red, 
And  he  skipt  about  with  grin  and  shout,  for 

he'd  had  a  drop  that  day, 
And  he  twisted  and  twirled,  and  squeal'd 

and  skirl'd,  in  the  foolish  Injin  way. 

To  the  waist  all  bare  Phil  Blood  lay  there, 

with  only  his  knife  in  his  belt, 
And  I  saw  his  bloodshot  eyeballs  stare,  and 

I  knew  how  fierce  he  felt, — 
When  the  Injin  dances  with  grinning  glances 

around  him  as  he  lies, 
With  his  painted  skin  and  his  monkey  grin,— 

and  leers  into  his  eyes  ! 


Then  before  I  knew  what  I  should  do 

Blood  was  on  his  feet, 
And  the  Injin  could  trace  the  hate  in  his 

face,  and  his  heart  began  to  beat  ; 
And,  'Git  out  o'  the  way,'  he  heard  them 

say,  '  for  he  means  to  hev  your  life  ! ' 
But  before  he  could  fly  at  the  warning  cry, 

he  saw  the  flash  of  the  knife. 

'  Run,  Panther  run  ! '  cried  each  mother's 

son,  and  the  Panther  took  the  track  ; 
With  a  wicked  glare,  like  a  wounded  bear, 

Phil  Blood  sprang  at  his  back. 
Up  the  side  so  steep  of  the  cafton  deep  the 

poor  old  critter  sped, 
And  the  devil's  limb  ran  after  him,  till  they 

faded  overhead. 

Now,  the  spot  of  ground  where  our  luck 

was  found  was  a  queerish  place,  you'll 

mark, 
Jest  under  the  jags  of  the  mountain  crags 

and  the  precipices  dark  ; 
Far  up  on  high,  close  to  the  sky,  the  two 

crags  leant  together, 
Leaving  a  gap,  like  an  open  trap,  with  a 

gleam  of  golden  weather. 

A  pathway  led  from  the  beck's  dark  bed  up 

to  the  crags  on  high, 
And  along  that  path  the  Injin  fled,  fast  as  a 

man  could  fly. 
Some  shots  were  fired,  for  I  desired  to  keep 

the  white  beast  back  ; 
But  I  missed  my  man,  and  away  he  ran  on 

the  flying  Injin's  track. 

Now  all  below  is  thick,  you  know,  with 

'cacia,  alder,  and  pine, 
And  the  bright  shrubs  deck  the  side  of  the 

beck,  and  the  lian  flowers  so  fine. 
For  the  forest  creeps  all  under  the  steeps, 

and  feathers  the  feet  of  the  crags 
With  boughs  so  thick  that  your  path  you 

pick,  like  a  steamer  among  the  snags. 

But  right  above  you,  the  crags,  Lord  love 
you  !  are  bare  as  this  here  hand, 

And  your  eyes  you  wink  at  the  bright  blue 
chink,  as  looking  up  you  stand. 

If  a  man  should  pop  in  that  trap  at  the  top, 
he'd  never  rest  arm  or  leg, 

Till  neck  and  crop  to  the  bottom  he'd  drop — 
and  smash  on  the  stones  like  an  egg  ! 


PHIL   BLOOD'S  LEAP. 


507 


'  Come  back,  you  cuss  !  come  back  to  us  ! 

and  let  the  critter  be  ! ' 
I  screamed  out  loud,  while  the  men  in  a 

crowd    stood  grinning   at    them   and 

me  .  .  . 
But  up  they  went,  and  my  shots  were  spent, 

and  at  last  they  disappeared, — 
One  minute  more,  and  we  gave  a  roar,  for 

the  Injin  had  leapt,  and  cleared! 

A  leap  for  a  deer,  not  a  man,  to  clear,— and 

the  bloodiest  grave  below  ! 
But  the  critter  was  smart  and  mad  with  fear, 

and  he  went  like  a  bolt  from  a  bow  ! 
Close  after  him  came  the  devil's  limb,  with 

his  eyes  as  dark  as  death, 
But  when  he  came  to  the  gulch's  brim,  I 

reckon  he  paused  for  breath  ! 

For  breath  at  the  brink !  but — a  white  man 

shrink,  when  a  red  had  passed  so  neat? 
I  knew  Phil  Blood  too  well  to  think  he'd 

turn  his  back  dead  beat ! 
He  takes  one  run,  leaps  up  in  the  sun,  and 

bounds  from  the  slippery  ledge, 
And  he  clears  the  hole,  but — God  help  his 

soul !  just  touches  the  tother  edge  ! 

One  scrambling  fall,  one  shriek,  one  call, 

from  the  men  that  stand  and  stare, — 
Black  in  the  blue  where  the  sky  looks  thro', 

he  staggers,  dwarf 'd  up  there  ; 
The    edge    he    touches,   then    sinks,    and 

clutches  the  rock — our  eyes  grow  dim — 
I  turn  away — what's  that  they  say? — he's  a- 

hanging  on  to  the  brim  ! 

.  .  .  On  the  very  brink  of  the  fatal  chink  a 

ragged  shrub  there  grew, 
And  to  that  he  clung,  and  in  silence  swung 

betwixt  us  and  the  blue, 
And  as  soon  as  a  man  could  run  I  ran  the 

way  I'd  seen  them  flee, 
And  I  came  mad-eyed  to  the  chasm's  side, 

and — what  do  you  think  I  see  ? 

All  up?  Not  quite.    Still  hanging  ?   Right! 

But  he'd  torn  away  the  shrub  ; 
With  lolling  tongue  he  clutch' d  and  swung— 

to  what  ?  ay,  that's  the  rub  ! 
I  saw  him  glare  and  dangle  in  air, — for  the 

empty  hole  he  trode, — 
Help'd  by  a.  pair  of  hands  up  there  ! — The 

Injin's?    Yes,  by  God  ! 


Now,  boys,  look  here  !  for  many  a  year  I've 

roam'd  in  this  here  land — 
And  many  a  sight  both  day  and  night  I've 

seen  that  I  think  grand  ; 
Over  the  whole  wide  world  I've  been,  and 

I  know  both  things  and  men, 
But  the  biggest  sight  I've  ever  seen  was  the 

sight  I  saw  jest  then. 

I  held  my  breath — so  nigh  to  death  Phil 

Blood  swung  hand  and  limb, 
And  it  seem'd  to  us  all  that  down  he'd  fall, 

with  the  Panther  after  him, 
But  the  Injin  at  length  put  out  his  strength — 

and  another  minute  past, — 
— Then  safe  and  sound  to  the  solid  ground 

he  drew  Phil  Blood,  at  last ! ! 

Saved  ?  True  for  you  !  By  an  Injin  too  ! — 

and  the  man  he  meant  to  kill ! 
There  all  alone,  on  the  brink  of  stone,  I  see 

them  standing  still  ; 
Phil  Blood  gone  white,  with  the  struggle 

and  fright,  like  a  great  mad  bull  at  bay, 
And  the  Injin  meanwhile,  with  ahalf-skeer'd 

smile,  ready  to  spring  away. 

What'did  Phil  do  ?  Well,  I  watched  the  two, 

and  I  saw  Phil  Blood  turn  back, 
Bend  over  the  brink  and  take  a  blink  right 

down  the  chasm  black, 
Then  stooping  low  for  a  moment  or  so,  he 

sheath'd  his  bowie  bright, 
Spat  slowly  down,  and  watch'd  with  a  frown, 

as  the  spittle  sank  from  sight ! 

Hands  in  his  pockets,  eyes  downcast,  silent, 

thoughtful,  and  grim, 
While  the  Panther,  grinning  as  he  passed, 

still  kept  his  eyes  on  him, 
Phil  Blood  strolled  slow  to  his  mates  below, 

down  by  the  mountain  track, 
With  his  lips  set  tight  and  his  face  all  white, 

and  the  Panther  at  his  back. 

I  reckon  they  stared  when  the  two  appeared ! 

but  never  a  word  Phil  spoke, 
Some  of  them  laughed  and  others  jeered, — 

but  he  let  them  have  their  joke  ; 
He  seemed  amazed,  like  a  man  gone  dazed, 

the  sun  in  his  eyes  too  bright, 
And  for  many  a  week,  in  spite  of  their  cheek, 

he  never  offered  to  fight. 


5o8 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  AND   BALLADS. 


And  after  that  day  he  changed  his  play,  and 

O'erhead  is  flying, 

kept  a  civiller  tongue, 

And  beneath  the  sea-gull 

And  whenever  an  Injin  came  that  way,  his 

Doth  build  its  nest. 

contrairy  head  he  hung  ; 

And  across  the  water 

But  whenever  he  heard  the  lying  word,  '  It's 

A  farm  gleams  fair, 

a  LIE  !'  Phil  Blood  would  groan  ; 

And  the  farmer's  daughter 

1  A  Snake  is  a  Snake,  make  no  mistake  ! 

Dwelt  lonely  there  :  — 

but  an  Injin  s  flesh  and  bone  I' 

And  on  Eilanowen 

She'd  sit  and  sing, 

When  the  Fays  were  sowing 

THE  FAERY  REAPER. 

Their  seeds  in  spring, 

IRELAND. 

She  could  not  hear  them, 

'Tis  on  Eilanowen, 

Nor  see  them  p  eping  ; 
Tho'  she  wandered  near  them 

There's  laughter  nightly  I 
For  the  Fays  are  sowing 
Their  golden  grain  : 
It  springs  by  moonlight 

The  spring-tide  thro', 
When  the  grouse  was  crowing, 
The  trout  was  leaping, 
And  with  hare-bells  blowing 

So  stilly  and  brightly, 

The  banks  were  blue. 

And  it  drinks  no  sunlight, 
Or  silver  rain  ;  — 

But  not  by  moonlight 
She  dared  to  stay, 

Tho'  the  shoots  up  creeping 

Only  by  sunlight 

No  man  may  see, 

She  went  that  way. 

When  men  are  reaping 

And  on  Eilanowen 

It  reapt  must  be  ; 

They  walked  each  night, 

But  to  reap  it  rightly, 

Her  footprints  sowing 

With  sickle  keen, 

With  lilies  white  ! 

They  must  lead  there  nightly 
A  pure  colleen  ! 

When  the  sun  above  her 

Was  brightly  blazing, 

Yes,  pure  completely 

She'd  bare  (God  love  her  !) 

Must  be  that  maiden, 

Each  round  white  limb. 

Just  feeling  sweetly 

Unseen,  unnoted, 

Her  love's  first  dream. 

Save  fay-folk  gazing, 

Should  one  steal  thither 

Dark  hair'd,  white  throated, 

With  evil  laden, 

She'd  strip  to  swim  ! 

The  crop  would  wither 

Out  yonder  blushing 

In  the  pale  moon's  beam  ! 

A  space  she'd  stand, 

For  midnights  seven, 

Then  falter  flushing 

While  all  men  sleep, 

Across  the  strand,  — 

'Neath  the  silent  heaven 

Till  the  bright  still  water 

The  maid  must  reap  ; 

Would  sparkle  sweet, 

And  the  sweeter  and  whiter 

As  it  kissed  and  caught  her 

Of  soul  is  she, 

From  neck  to  feet  ! 

The  better  and  brighter 

Will  that  harvest  be  ! 

There,  sparkling  round  her 

With  fond  caresses, 

...  In  Lough  Bawn's  bosom 

It  clasp'd  her,  crowned  her, 

The  isle  is  lying, 

My  maiden  fair  ! 

Like  a  bright  green  blossom 
On  a  maiden's  breast- 

Then,  brighter  glowing 
From  its  crystal  kisses, 

There  the  water-eagle  l 

The  bright  drops  flowing 

1  The  osprey  (Pandion), 

From  her  dripping  hair, 

THE  FAERY  REAPER. 


Outleaping,  running 

And  bright  grain  growing 

Beneath  the  sky, 

I  surely  see  ; 

The  bright  light  sunning 

A  golden  sickle 

Her  limbs,  she'd  fly,  — 

My  fingers  keep, 

And  'mid  tinkling  laughter 

And  my  slow  tears  trickle 

Of  elfin  bowers, 

On  what  I  reap  ! 

The  Fays  ran  after 

With  leaves  and  flowers  ! 

'  The  moon  is  gleaming, 

The  faeries  gather, 

Could  the  Fays  behold  her, 

Like  glow-worms  gleaming, 

Nor  long  to  gain  her  ? 

Their  eyes  flash  quick  ; 

From  foot  to  shoulder 

I  try  while  reaping 

None  pure  as  she  ! 

To  name  "  Our  Father  !  " 

They  cried  '  God  keep  her, 

But  round  me  leaping 

No  sorrow  stain  her  ! 

They  pinch  and  prick  — 

The  Faery  Reaper 

On  the  stalks  of  amber, 

In  troth  she'll  be  !  "... 

On  the  silvern  ears, 

With  stalks  of  amber 

They  cling,  they  clamber, 

And  silvern  ears, 

Till  day  appears  ! 

From  earth's  dark  chamber 

And  here  I'm  waking 

The  grain  appears. 

In  bed,  once  more, 

'Tis  harvest  weather  ! 

My  bones  all  aching, 

The  moon  swims  high  ! 

My  heart  full  sore  1  ' 

And  they  flock  together 

With  elfin  cry  1 

I  kissed  her,  crying 

'  God  bless  your  reaping  ! 

Now,  long  and  truly 

For  sure  no  sighing 

I'd  loved  that  maiden  ; 

Can  set  you  free. 

And  served  her  duly 

They'll  bless  your  wedding 

With  kiss  and  sign  ; 

Who  vex  your  sleeping  ; 

And  that  same  season 

So  do  their  bidding, 

My  soul  love-laden 

Ma  cushla  chree  I 

Had  found  new  reason 

But  oh,  remember  ! 

To  wish  her  mine. 

Your  fate  is  cast, 

For  her  cheek  grew  paler, 

And  ere  December 

Her  laughter  less, 

Hath  fairly  past, 

And  what  might  ail  her 

The  Faery  Reaper 

I  could  not  guess. 

Must  be  a  Bride, 

Each  harvest  morrow 

Or  a  sad  cold  sleepe. 

We  kissing  met, 

On  the  green  hill-side  1  £ 

And  with  weary  sorrow 

Her  eyes  seem'd  wet. 

'  Sure  wedding's  better 

Than  dying  sadly  !  ' 

'Oh,  speak,  Mavourneen, 

She  smiled,  and  set  her 

What  ails  ye  nightly? 

Soft  hand  in  mine. 

For  sure  each  morning 

For  three  nights  after 

'Tis  sad  ye  seem  !  ' 

She  labour'  d  gladly, 

Her  eyes  not  weeping 

'Mid  fairy  laughter, 

Looked  on  me  brightly  :  — 

And  did  not  pine  ; 

1  Each  night  when  sleeping 

And  when  the  seven 

I  dream  a  Dream. 

Long  nights  were  run, 

'Tis  on  Eilanowen 

Full  well  'neath  Heaven 

I  seem  to  b<»                                                    That  work  was  done  : 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


Their  sheaves  were  slanted, 

Then  be  quickly  ready 

Their  harvest  made, 

To  seize  her  hair, 

And  no  more  they  wanted 

And  to  name  Our  Lady 

A  mortal's  aid. 

As  she  wakens  there  ; 

And  tho'  clouds  may  thunder 

'Tis  on  Eilanowen 

O'er  the  waters  wide, 

There's  laughter  nightly, 

To  the  walls  of  wonder 

When  the  Fays  are  sowing 
Their  golden  grain  ! 

She'll  be  your  guide. 

God  bless  that  laughter  ; 

in. 

That  grain  blow  brightly  1 

In  the  year  of  hunger,2 

For  luck  came  after 

That's  long  gone  by, 

My  Mary's  pain. 

When  I  was  younger 

And  when  sweet  Mary 

Who  now  am  old, 

Was  wed  to  me, 

By  the  Ocean  dreary 

Sure  the  folk  of  faery 

Like  a  taisch  3  went  I, 

Were  there  to  see  :  — 

Thin,  weak  and  weary, 

The  white  board  spreading, 

With  want  and  cold. 

Unheard,  unseen, 

O  sweetly  gleaming 

They  blest  the  wedding 

Was  the  Sea  that  hour, 

Of  a  pure  colleen  1 

And  the  sun  was  streaming 

Thro'  a  golden  shower  ; 

As  I  wandered  sighing 

THE  '  MIDIAN-MARA.^ 

For  the  famished  Land, 

I  beheld  her  lying 

THERE'S  a  sad  sea-maiden 

On  the  yellow  strand  ! 

Sighs  day  and  night  ; 

IV. 

For  lack  of  Eden 

Like  the  silver  shining 

Her  eyes  weep  sore  ; 

Was  the  Maiden's  skin, 

If  you  come  upon  her 

The  red  locks  twining 

By  pale  moonlight,  — 

To  the  breasts  of  white, 

Farewell  to  honour 

Her  cheeks  were  hueless 

For  evermore  ! 

And  chill  and  thin, 

Tho'  her  hair  is  redder 

Her  lips  were  dewless, 

Than  blood  fresh  spilt, 

But  her  eyes  were  bright. 

'Tis  you  must  wed  her 

Behind  her  creeping 

And  share  her  guilt  ; 

I  held  her  hair,  — 

'Tis  you,  more  pity  I 

As  she  scream'd  upleaping 

Must  buried  be 

I  said  the  prayer  ;  — 

In  her  shining  City 

'  O  Midian-Mara  I 

Beneath  the  Sea. 

I  hold  thee  mine  : 

Thy  help  I  borrow, 

n. 

By  the  Cross's  sign  !  ' 

But  shouldest  thou  view  her 

When  shines  the  sun, 

V. 

And  softly  unto  her 

Hast  thou  ever  noted 

On  tiptoe  creep, 

A  wounded  seal, 

You'll  find  her  dozing 

As  it  bleats  shrill-throated 

As  I  have  done, 

Before  it  dies  ? 

Naked  reposing 

As  a  seal's  eyes  turning 

In  a  sunny  sleep  ; 

On  them  that  kill, 

1  Anglice,  'The  Mermaid.' 

a  The  year  of  Irish  famine.       3  Ghost  or  spirit 

THE  IMIDIAN-MARA: 


With  a  dying  yearning, 

On,  a  strand  of  snow, 

Were  the  maiden's  eyes. 

Its  bright  towers  beaming 

With  those  orbs  of  azure 

All  glass  and  gold  ! 

She  gazed  on  me  :  — 

And  a  sound  thrilled  thro'  me 

1  O  what's  thy  pleasure, 

Like  the  sound  of  bells, 

Gilli  ma  chree  f 

Upwafted  to  me 

And  her  tears  fell  brightly 

On  the  ocean  swells  ; 

Upon  the  sands, 

And  I  saw  far  under, 

As  she  trembled  whitely 

Within  those  same, 

With  wringing  hands. 

White  shapes  of  wonder 

That  went  and  came  ! 

VI. 

'  O  take  me  straightway,' 

IX. 

To  her  said  I, 

'  O  Mary,  mother, 

1  To  the  City's  gateway 

That  savest  me, 

That  well  ye  know  — 

'Tis  the  place,  no  other, 

'Tis  the  hunger  kills  me, 

Where  I  would  go  ; 

And  that's  no  lie, 

For  'tis  sweet  and  pleasant, 

And  a  longing  fills  me 

Set  'neath  the  Sea 

From  earth  to  go.' 

In  the  bright  white  crescent 

She  ceased  her  crying, 

Of  the  strand  below. 

And  sadly  said, 

'Tis  the  hunger  in  me 

With  the  white  gulls  flying 

That  works  its  will, 

Above  her  head, 

Lest  the  devil  win  me 

'  Is  it  there,  mavourneen, 

To  steal  or  kill.' 

Ye'd  wish  to  stand, 

I  held  her  tighter, 

That  were  bred  and  born  in 

And  prayed  anew  :  — 

A  Christian  land?' 

As  I  spoke,  still  brighter 

That  vision  grew. 

VII. 

I  knew  her  nature 

X. 

Was  sly  and  deep, 

Still  glassy  and  shining 

Tho'  the  wicked  creature 

Those  walls  of  flame, 

Had  a  heavenly  face  ; 

With  the  sea-weeds  twining 

And  I  looked  below  me 

Around  their  feet  ; 

At  the  waves  asleep, 

More  large  the  place's 

As  I  answered,  '  Show  me 

Great  towers  became, 

That  very  place  ! 

Till  I  saw  the  faces 

'Tis  You  must  charm  me 

In  the  golden  street. 

To  take  the  track, 

I  saw  and  knew  them 

And  no  hand  shall  harm  me 

(The  Lord's  my  guide  !) 

Till  I  come  back.  ' 

As  the  water  drew  them 

As  I  spake,  deep  thunder 

From  side  to  side  ; 

Was  heard  that  day, 

I  saw  the  creatures, 

And  I  saw,  far  under, 

And  I  knew  them  then  — 

Where  the  City  lay  ! 

The  wool-white  features 

Of  drowned  men  ! 

VIII. 

'Neath  the  green  still  ocean, 

XI. 

Far,  far,  below, 

Upright  they  drifted, 

With  a  mystic  motion 

All  wet  and  cold, 

That  can't  be  told, 

By  the  sea-wash  lifted 

I  saw  it  gleaming 

Like  the  red  sea-tang, 

512 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


While  in  wild  sad  cadence, 
From  the  towers  of  gold, 
The  pale  sea-maidens 

Struck  harps  and  sang 
1  O  shule,  shule, 

0  shule,  aroon  I ' 1 
I  tell  thee  truly, 

1  heard  them  croon ; 
Then  I  heard  that  thunder 

Roll  deep  once  more, 

And  I  swooned  for  wonder 

On  the  yellow  shore ! 


When  I  raised  in  sorrow 

My  fearful  face, 
The  Midian-Mara 

Was  fled  from  me  ; 
Without  repining 

I  left  the  place, 
As  the  Moon  rose  shining 

Beyond  the  sea. 
And  my  feet  went  faster 

To  see  her  light, 
For  I  feared  disaster 

If  I  stayed  that  night  .  , 
When  God  took  pity, 

And  brought  me  bread, 
I  forgot  that  City 

Of  the  drowned  dead. 


O'CONNOR'S    WAKE. 

AN   IRISH  FIDDLE  TUNE. 

To  the  wake  of  O'Connor 

What  boy  wouldn't  go  ? 
To  do  him  that  honour 

Went  lofty  and  low. 
Two  nights  was  the  waking, 
Till  day  began  breaking, 
And  frolics  past  spaking, 

To  please  him,  were  done  ; 
For  himself  in  the  middle, 
With  stick  and  with  fiddle, 
Stretch'd  out  at  his  ease,  was  the  King  of 

the  Fun. 

With  a  dimity  curtain  overhead, 
And  the  corpse-lights  shining  round  his  bed, 
Holding  his  fiddle  and  stick,  and  drest 
Top  to  toe  in  his  Sunday  best, 

1  '  Come,  come,  my  darling,  come  ! ' 


For  a.'l  the  world  he  seem'd  to  be 

Playing  on  his  back  to  the  companie. 

On  each  of  his  sides  was  the  candle-light ; 
On  his  legs  the  tobacco-pipes  were  piled ; 

Cleanly  wash'd,  in  a  shirt  of  white, 

His  grey  hair  brush'd,  his  beard  trimm'd 

right, 

He  lay  in  the  midst  of  his  friends,  and 
smiled. 

At  birth  and  bedding,  at  fair  and  feast, 

Welcome  as  light  or  the  smile  of  the  priest, 

Ninety  winters  up  and  down 

O'Connor  had  fiddled  in  country  and  town. 

Never  a  fiddler  was  clever  as  he 

At  dance  or  jig  or  pater-6 '-pee  ; 

The  sound  of  his  fiddle  no  word  could 
paint — 

'Twould  fright  the  devil  or  please  a  saint, 

Or  bring  the  heart,  with  a  single  skirl, 

To  the  very  mouth  of  a  boy  or  girl. 

He  played— and  his  elbow  was  never  done; 
He  drank — and  his  lips  were  never  dry  ; 

Ninety  winters  his  life  had  run, 

But  God's  above,  and  we  all  must  die. 

As    she    Stretch'd  him    out,    quoth    Judy 
O'Roon— 

'  Sure  life's  like  his  music,  and  ended  soon— 
There's  dancing  and  crying, 
There's  kissing,  there's  sighing. 
There's  smiling  and  sporting, 
There's  wedding  and  courting, — 

But  the  skirl  of  the  wake  is  the  end  of  the 
tune  ! ' 

'  Shin  suas,  O'Connor,'2 

Cried  Kitty  O' Bride— 
Her  best  gown  upon  her, 

Tim  Bourke  by  her  side — 
All  laughed  out  to  hear  her, 
While  Tim  he  crept  near  her, 
To  kiss  her  and  cheer  her 
At  the  back  o'  the  door  ; 
But  the  corpse  in  the  middle, 
With  stick  and  with  fiddle, 
All  done  with  diversion,  would  never  play 

more  ! 

On  the  threshold,  as  each  man  entered  there, 
He  knelt  on  his  knee  and  said  a  prayer, 
But  first  before  he  took  his  seat 

Among  the  company  there  that  night, 
He  lifted  a  pipe  from  O'Connor's  feet, 

And  lit  it  up  by  the  bright  corpse-light 
"  '  Play  up,  O'Connor  ! ' 


O'CONNOR'S    WAKE. 


513 


Chattering  there  in  the  cloud  of  smoke, 
They  waked  him  well  with  song  and  joke  ; 
The  gray  old  men  and  the  cauliaghs  x  told 
Of  all  his  doings  in  days  of  old  ; 
The  boys  and  girls  till  night  was  done, 
Played  their  frolics  and  took  their  fun, 
And  many  a  kiss  was  stolen  sure 
Under  the  window  and  behind  the  door. 
Andy  Hagan  and  Kitty  Delane 

Hid  in  a  corner  and  courted  there, 
'MonamondiouU'  cried  old  Tim  Blane, 

Pointing  them  out,  '  they're  a  purty  pair  ! ' 
But  when  they  blushed  and  hung  the  head, 
1  Troth,  never  be  shamed  ! '  the  old  man 

said  ; 

•Sure  love's  as  short  as  the  flowers  in  June, 
And  life's  like  music,  and  ended  soon — 
There's  wooing  and  wedding, 
There's  birth  and  there's  bedding, 
There's  grief  and  there's  pleasure 
To  fill  up  the  measure, — 
But  the  skirl  of  the  wake  is  the  end  of  the 
tune  ! ' 

At  the  wake  of  O'Connor 
Great  matches  were  made, 

To  do  him  more  honour 
We  joked  and  we  played — 

Two  nights  was  the  waking, 

Till  day  began  breaking, 

The  cabin  was  shaking 
Before  we  were  done, 

And  himself  in  the  middle, 

With  stick  and  with  fiddle, 
As  large  as  in  life,  was  the  King  of  the  Fun  ! 

4  Well,  I  remember,'  said  Tony  Carduff, 
Drawing  the  pipe  from  his  lips  with  a  puff, 
•Well,  I  lemember  at  Ballyslo', — 
And  troth  and  it's  thirty  years  ago, — 
In  the  midst  of  the  fair  there  fell  a  fight, 

And  who  but  O'  Connor  was  in  the  middle  ? 
Striking  and  crying  with  all  his  might, 

And  with  what  for  weapon  ?   the  ould 

black  fiddle  ! 
That  day  would  have  ended  its  music  straight 

If  it  hadn't  been  strong  as  an  iron  pot ; 
Tho"  the  blood  was  on  it  from  many  a  pate, 

Troth,  divil  a  bit  of  harm  it  got ! ' 
Cried  Michael  na  Chauliuy,2  'And  troth 
that's  true — 

1  Old  women. 

2  'Michael  the  Ferryman  ;'  lit.  'belonging  to 
the  ferry.' 


Himself  and  the  fiddle  were  matched  by  few. 
They  went  together  thro"  every  weather, 
Full  of  diversion  and  tough  as  leather, — 
I  thought  he'd  never  think  of  dying, 
But  Jesus  keep  us  ! — there's  he's  lying.' 
Then  the  cauliaghs  squatting  round  on  the 

floor 

Began  to  keenagh 3  and  sob  full  sore  ; 
'  God  be  good  to  the  ould  gossoon  ! 
Sure  life's  like  music,  and  ended  soon. 

There's  playing  and  plighting, 

There's  frolic  and  fighting, 

There's  singing  and  sighing, 

There's  laughing  and  crying, — 
But  the  skirl  of  the  wake  is  the  end  of  the 


At  the  wake  of  O'Connor, 

The  merry  old  man, 
To  wail  in  his  honour 

The  cauliaghs  began  ; 
And  Rose,  Donnell's  daughter 
From  over  the  water, 
Began  (sure  saints  taught  her  !) 

The  sweet  drimindku  ; 4 
All  was  still  ; — in  the  middle, 
With  stick  and  with  fiddle, 
O'Connor,  stretched  silent,  seem'd  hearken- 
ing too  ! 

Oh,  'twas  sweet  as  the  crooning  of  fairies 

by  night, 
Oh,  'twas  sad, — as  you  listened,  you  smiled 

in  delight, 
With  the  tears  in  your  eyes  ;  it  was  like  a 

shower  falling, 
When  the  rainbow  shines   thro'   and  the 

cuckoo  is  calling ; 
You  might  feel  through  it  all,  as  the  sweet 

notes  were  given, 
The  peace  of  the  Earth  and  the  promise  of 

Heaven  ! 
In  the  midst  of  it  all  the  sweet  singer  did 

stand, 
With  a  light  on  her  hair,  like  the  gleam  of 

a  hand ; 
She  seem'd  like  an  angel  to  each  girl  and 

boy, 
But  most  to  Tim  Cregan,  who  watch'd  her 

in  joy, 

8  To  cry,  as  during  the  coronach  at  a  funeral 
*  A  melancholy  ditty. 

L  L 


514 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  AND   BALLADS. 


And  when  she  had  ended  he  led  her  away.f 
And  whisper'd  his  love  till  the  dawning  o 

day. 
After  that,  cried  Pat  Rooney,  the  rogue  of 

a  lad, 
•  I'll  sing  something  merry— the  last  was 

too  sad  ! ' 
And  he  struck  up  the  song  of  the  Piper  of 

Clare. 
How  the  bags  of  his  pipes  were  beginning 

to  tear, 
And  how,  when  the  cracks  threaten'd  fairly 

to  end  them, 
He  cut  up  his  own  leather  breeches  to  mend 

them  ! 
How  we  laugh'd,  young  and  old  !  '  Well, 

beat  that  if  you  can,' 
Cried  fat  Tony  Bourke,  the  potheen-making 

man — 
•Who  sings  next?'   Tony  cried,   and  at 

that  who  came  in, 
Dancing  this  way  and  that  way  in  midst  of 

the  din, 
But  poor  Shamus  the  Fool  ?  and  he  gave  a 

great  spring— 
'  By  the  cross,  merry  boys,  'tis  mysilf  that 

can  sing ! ' 
Then  he  stood  by  the  corpse,  and  he  folded 

his  hands, 
And  he  sang  of  the  sea  and  the  foam  on 

the  sands, 
Of  the  shining  skiddawn 1  as  It  flies  to  and 

fro, 
Of  the  birds  of  the  waves  and  theii  wings 

like  the  snow. 
Then  he  sank  his  voice  lower  and  sang  with 

strange  sound 
Of  the  caves  down  beneath  and  the  beds  of 

the  drown'd, 
Till  we  wept  for  the  boys  who  lie  where  the 

wave  rolls, 
With  no  kinsmen  to  stretch  them  and  wake 

their  poor  souls. 
When  he  ceased.   Shamus  looked  at  the 

corpse,  and  he  said, 

'  Sure  a  dacenter  man  never  died  in  his  bed ! ' 
And  at  that  the  old  cauliaghs  began  to  croon  : 
'  Sure  life's  like  his  music,  and  ended  as 
soon — 

There's  dancing  and  sporting, 

There's  kissing  and  courting, 

There's  grief  and  there's  pleasure 
1  Herring. 


To  fill  up  the  measure, — 
Rut  the  skirl  of  the  wake  is  the  end  of  the 
tune.' 

'  A  health  to  O'Connor  ! ' 

Fat  Anthony  said : 
'  We'll  drink  in  the  honour 

Of  him  that  is  dead.' 
A  two-gallon  cag,  then, 
Did  Anthony  drag  then 
From  out  his  old  bag  then, 

While  all  there  grew  keen. 
'Twas  sweet,  strong,  and  filling— 
His  own  best  distilling ! 
Oh,  well  had  the  dead  man  loved  Tony's 

potheen  \ 2 

Then  the  fun  brightened  up  ;   but  of  all 

that  befell 
It  would  take  me  a  long  day  in  summer  to 

tell— 
Of  the  dancing  and  singing,    the  leaping 

and  sporting, 
And  sweetest   of  all,  the  sly  kissing  and 

courting  ! 
Two  nights  was  the   waking  ;    two  long 

winter  nights 

O'Connor  lay  smiling  in  midst  of  the  lights, 
In  the  cloud  of  the  smoke  like  a  cloud  of 

the  skies, 

The  blessing  upon  him,  to  close  his  old  eyes. 
Oh,   when  the  time  comes  for  myself  to 

depart, 
May  I  die  full  of  days  like  the  merry  old 

man  ! 
I'll  be  willing  to  go  with  the  peace  on  my 

heart, 
Contented  and  happy,  since  life's  but  a 

span  ; 
And  O  may  I  have,  when  my  lips  cease  to 

spake, 

To  help  my  poor  soul,  such  an  elegant  wake ! 
The  country  all  there,  friends  and  kinsmen 

and  all, 
And  myself  in  the  middle,  with  candle  and 

pall !  .  .  . 
Came  the  dawn,  and  we  put  old  O'Connor 

to  rest, 
In  his  coffin  of  wood,  with  his  hands  on  his 

breast, 
And  we  followed  him  all  by  the  hundred 

and  more, — 

8  Whisky,  illicitly  distilled 


O'CONNOR'S   WAKE— HIGHLAND  LAMENT— JAMES  AVERY.      515 


The  boys  all  in  black,  and  his  friends  sigh- 
ing sore. 

We  left   him  in  peace,   the  poor  sleeping 
gossoon, 

Thinking,  '  Life's  like  his  music,  and  ended 
too  soon. 

There's  laughing  and  sporting, 
There's  kissing  and  courting. 
There's  grief  and  there's  pleasure 
To  fill  up  the  measure, — 

But  the  wake  and  the  grave  are  the  end  :>f 
the  tune ! ' 

'  Good-bye  to  O'Connor,1 

Cried  Barnaby  Blake, 
'  May  the  saints  do  him  honour 

For  the  ould  fiddle's  sake  ! 
If  the  saints  love  sweet  playing — 
It's  the  thruth  that  I'm  saying — 
His  sowl  will  be  straying 

And  fiddling  an  air  ! 
He'll  pass  through  their  middle, 
With  stick  and  with  fiddle, 
And  they'll  give  him  the  cead  mile  fealta  ' 
up  there  ! ' 

NOTE. — The  preceding  Poem  is  a  literal  de- 
scription of  a  wake  in  the  wildest  and  loneliest 
part  of  Connaught.  Several  of  the  characters — 
e.g.  Shamus  the  Fool— are  well  known  to  the 
mountaineers  and  fishermen  of  that  untrodden 
district,  where  the  old  Celtic  tongue  is  still 
spoken  in  its  purity  and  the  old  Celtic  customs 
are  still  practised,  and  where  the  author,  in  almost 
complete  seclusion,  passed  four  happy  years. 


HIGHLAND  LAMENT. 

'  O  MAR  tha  mi !  'tis  the  wind  that's  blowing, 
O  mar  tha  mi !  'tis  the  sea  that's  white  ! 

'Tis  my  own  brave  boatman  was  up  and 

going, 
From  Uist  to  Barra  at  dead  of  night ; 

Body  of  black  and  wings  of  red 

His  boat  went  out  on  thf  stormy  sea. 

0  mar  tha  mi !  can  I  sleep  in  my  bed? 
O  gillie  dubh  !  come  back  to  me  1 

1  O  mar  tha  mi !  is  it  weed  out  yonder  ? 

Is  it  drifting  weed  or  a  tangled  sail  ? 
On  the  shore  I  wait  and  watch  and  wander. 
It's  calm  this  day,  after  last  night's  gale. 

1  '  Hundred  thousand  welcomes.' 


O  this  is  the  skiff  with  wings  so  red, 
And  it  floats  upturned  on  the  glassy  sea 

O  mar  tha  mi !  is  my  boatman  dead  ? 
O  gillie  dubh  !  come  back  to  me  1 

'  O  mar  tha  mi !  'tis  a  corpse  that's  sleeping, 

Floating  there  on  the  slippery  sands  ; 
His  face  is  drawn  and  his  locks  are  dreeping, 

His  arms  are  stiff  and  he's  clench'd  his 

hands. 
Turn  him  up  on  his  slimy  bed, 

Clean  his  face  from  the  weed  o1  the  sea. 
O  mar  tha  mi !  'tis  my  boatman  dead  ! 

O  gillie  dubh  !  won't  you  look  at  me  ? 

'  O  mar  tha  mi !  'tis  my  love  that's  Uiken  ! 

O  mar  tha  mi !  I  am  left  forlorn ! 
He'll  never  kiss  and  he'll  never  waken, 

He'll  never  look  on  the  babe  unborn. 
His  blood  is  water,  his  heart  is  lead, 

He's  dead  and  slain  by  the  cruel  sea. 
O  mar  tha  mi  !  I  am  lone  in  my  bed, 

My  gillie  dubh  is  lost  to  me  ! ' 


JAMES  AVERY. 

AT  Portsmouth,  in  a  tavern  dark, 
One  day  of  windy  weather, 

A  crew  of  reckless  sailors  sat, 
And  drank  their  grog  together. 

Loud  was  the  talk,  and  rude  the  joke, 

So  deep  the  jovial  din 
They  did  not  mark  a  lean,  wild  shape 

Who  shivering  enter'd  in  : 

A  beggar  wight,  who  hugg'd  his  rags, 
And  chatter'd  with  the  cold  ; 

Lean  was  his  shape,  his  eyeballs  dim, 
Wrinkled  his  cheek,  and  old. 

In  a  dark  corner  of  the  room 

He  sat  with  sorry  cheer, 
Not  list'ning,  till  a  word,  a  lame, 

Fell  on  his  frozen  ear. 

'  James  Avery ! '  and  as  he  o-pake 
»One  pointed  thro'  the  pane 
At  a  great  playbill  on  the  wall 
Of  the  damp  and  oozy  lane. 

On  the  dead  wall  the  letters  great 
Made  tempting  bright  display  : 

LL2 


5i6 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


James  A  very,  the  Pirate  King, 
Was  posted  that  night's  play. 

'  Ay  ! '  cried  a  tar,  reading  aloud, 
'  Well  might  they  call  him  so  ! 

The  Pirate  King — I  grudge  his  luck  I ' 
Then,  with  an  oath,  '  I'll  go.' 

Another  cried,  'Ah,  that's  the  life 

To  suit  a  sailor's  style  ! 
Ben  Conway  saw  his  palace,  mates, 

On  Madagascar  Isle ; 

'  And  on  a  throne,  in  red  and  gold, 

Jem  sat  like  any  king, 
With  dark-eyed  donnas  all  around, 

As  fresh  as  flowers  in  spring  ! 

'  They  brought  him  wine  in  cups  of  gold, 
And  each  knelt  on  her  knee — 

Each  mother-naked,  smooth  as  silk — 
Ah,  that's  the  life  for  me  ! ' 

Then  spake  a  third,  '  I  sailed  with  Jem 
On  board  the  "  Hurricane  "  ; 

When  he  deserted  I  ne'er  thought 
To  hear  of  him  again. 

'  And  now  it's  long  since  last  I  heard 
His  name,  and  p'raps  he's  dead.' 

1  Not  so  ;  he  only  takes  a  nap  ! ' 
A  grizzly  war's-man  said. 

1  He  has  a  fleet  of  fighting  ships, 

Swifter  than  ours  tenfold ; 
Last  spring  he  took  six  Indiamen, 

Laden  with  gems  and  gold. 

'  There's  not  a  corner  of  the  main 
But  knows  the  skull  and  bones— 

Up  goes  the  flag !  and  down  comes  Jem, 
As  sure  as  Davy  Jones. 

1  But  let  him  have  his  fling  ;  some  day 
We'll  catch  him  at  his  trade — 

Short  shrift !  a  rope  !  and  up  he  goes, 
And  all  his  pranks  are  played.' 

All  laughed ;  '  But  not  so  fast,'  cried  one ; 

'  It's  not  too  late,  I  vow ; 
His  Majesty  would  pardon  him, 

If  he'd  surrender  now. 

1  The  pardon's  in  the  newspapers, 
In  black  and  white  it's  there  ; 

If  pirate  Jem  will  cease  his  games, 
They'll  spare  his  life,  they  swear 


All  laugh'd  again — 'Jem's  wide  awake-- 

You  don't  catch  birds  with  chaff- 
Come  back  to  biscuit  and  salt  junk? 
He  is  too  'cute  by  half. 

'  Leave  all  his  gold  and  precious  stones, 

His  kingdom,  and  all  that, 
Bid  all  them  dark-eyed  girls  farewell 

For  labour, — and  the  cat  ? ' 

Ev'n  as  they  speak,  a  wretched  form 

Springs  up  before  their  eyes. 
'  Give  me  the  paper  !  let  me  read  ! ' 

The  famished  creature  cries. 

They  thrust  him  back  with  jeer  and  laugh, 
So  wild  and  strange  is  he.  .  .  . 

•  Why,  who's  this  skeleton  ? "...  A  voice 
Answers,  '  James  Avery  ! ' 

Louder  they  laugh — '  He's  mad!  he's  mad!' 

They  round  him  in  a  ring. 
1  Jem  here  in  rags  !  no,  he's  in  luck, 

As  grand  as  any  king  ! ' 

But  soon  he  proves  his  story  true 
With  eager  words  and  tones  ; 

Then,  as  he  ends,  '  Bread,  give  me  bread ! 
I'm  starving,  mates  ! '  he  moans. 

'  Nay,  drink ! '  they  cry ;  and  his  lean  hands 

Clutch  at  the  fiery  cup. 
'  Here's  to  the  King  who  pardons  me ! ' 

He  cries,  and  drinks  it  up. 

He  tells  them  of  his  weary  days 
Since  that  dark  hour  he  fled, 

A  hunted  thing,  without  a  home 
Wherein  to  lay  his  head. 

Through  some  mysterious  freak  of  fate, 
His  name  abroad  was  spread, 

And  not  a  wondrous  deed  was  done 
But  that  wild  name  was  said  ; 

And  all  the  time  James  Avery  dwelt 

An  outcast,  gaunt  and  grim, 
Till  creeping  home  that  day  he  heard 

His  King  had  pardoned  him. 

The  wild  drink  mounted  to  his  brain, 

He  revell'd  maniac-eyed, 
'  Come  to  the  playhouse— 'twill  be  sport 

To  see  thyself ! '  they  cried. 

Between  them,  down  the  narrow  street 
They  led  his  scarecrow  form — 


JAMES  AVERY-THE   D  EVILS  PEE  PS  HOW. 


The  wind  blew  chill  from  off  the  sea, 
Before  the  rising  storm. 

They  sat  and  saw  the  mimic  play, 

Till  late  into  the  night  :— 
The  happy  Pirate,  crown'd  with  gold, 

And  clad  in  raiment  bright. 

The  actor  swagger' d  on  the  stage 
And  drank  of  glorious  cheer,  .  .  . 

James  Avery  gazed  !  his  hungry  laugh 
Was  pitiful  to  hear ! 

They  parted.  ...  As  the  chill  white  dawn 

Struck  down  a  lonely  lane, 
It  flashed  upon  the  rainy  wall 

And  made  the  play-bill  plain. 

James  Avery,  the  Pirate  King  / 

The  mocking  record  said — 
Beneath,  James  Avery's  famish'd  form 

Lay  ragged,  cold,  and  dead  ! 


THE  DEVIL'S  PEE  PS  HOW. 

OLD  STYLE. 

As  thro'  the  Town  of  Vanity  I  trod, 
I  heard  one  calling  in  the  name  of  God, 
And  turning  I  beheld  a  wan-eyed  wight, 
Clad  in  a  garment  that  had  once  been  bright, 
Who,  while  a  few  pale  children  gathered  round, 
Did  plant  his  faded  Peepshow  on  the  ground. 
Trembling  thechildren.'peep'd;  and  lingering  nigh, 
E'en  thus  I  heard  the  ragged  Showman  cry  : — 


Now  first  your  eye  will  here  descry 

How  all  the  world  begun  : 
The  earth  green-dight,  the  ocean  bright, 

The  moon,  the  stars,  the  sun. 
All  yet  is  dark  ;  but  you  will  mark, 

While  round  this  sphere  is  spun, 
A  Hand  so  bare  moves  here  and  there, 

Whence  rays  of  ruby  run. 
I  pull  a  string,  and  everything 

Is  finish' d  bright  and  new, 
Tho'  dim  as  dream  all  yet  doth  seem  ; 

And  this,  God  wot,  is  true. 


Now  this,  you  see,  is  Eden  Tree, 
In  Eden's  soil  set  deep  ; 

Beneath  it  lies  with  closed  eyes 
Strong  Adam,  fast  asleep. 


All  round,  the  scene  is  gold  and  green, 

And  silver  rivers  creep  ; 
Him  on  the  grass  the  wild  beasts  pass, 

As  mild  and  tame  as  sheep. 
My  bell  I  ring  ;  I  pull  a  string  ; 

And  on  the  self-same  spot, 
From  Adam's  side  God  takes  his  Bride  ; 

And  this  is  true,  God  wot. 

in. 
There  still  doth  shine  the  Tree  Divine, 

Flush' d  with  a  purple  flame, 
And  hand  in  hand  our  parents  stand, 

Naked,  but  have  no  shame. 
Now  Adam  goes  to  take  repose 

While  musing  sits  his  Dame  ; 
When,  over  her,  the  blest  boughs  stir, 

To  show  how  Satan  came. 
A  Snake  so  bright,  with  horns  of  light, 

Green  leaves  he  rustles  thro', 
Fair  Eve  descries  with  wondering  eyes ; 

And  this,  God  wot,  is  true. 

IV. 
Now  pray  perceive,  how  over  Eve 

The  fruits  forbidden  grow. 
With  hissing  sound  the  Snake  twines  round, 

His  eyes  like  rubies  glow. 
1  Fair  Eve,'  he  says  (in  those  old  days 

Snakes  spoke)  and  louteth  low, 
1  This  fruit  you  see  upon  the  Tree 

Shall  make  you  see  and  know.  .  .  .' 
My  bell  I  ring  ;  I  pull  a  string  ; 

And  on  the  self-same  spot 
Fair  Eve  doth  eat  the  Fruit  so  sweet ; 

And  this  is  true,  God  wot. 

v. 
A  CHILD. 

Please,  why  did  He  who  made  the  Tree, 

Our  Father  in  the  sky, 
Let  it  grow  there,  so  sweet  and  fair, 

To  tempt  our  Parents'  eye? 

SHOWMAN. 

My  pretty  dear,  it  is  most  clear 

He  wish'd  their  strength  to  try  ; 
And  therefore  sent,  with  wise  intent, 

The  Serpent  swift  and  sly. 
I  pull  a  string,  and  there  (poor  thing  !) 

Stands  Adam  eating  too  ! 
And  now,  you  mark,  all  groweth  dark  ; 

And  this,  God  wot,  is  true. 


5iS 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS   AND   BALLADS. 


VI. 

Now,  you  discern,  a  voice  so  stern 

Cries  'Adam,  where  art  thoul' 
Tis  God  the  Lord,  by  all  adored, 

Walks  there  ;  and  all  things  bow. 
But  with  his  Bride  doth  Adam  hide 

His  guilty,  burning  brow  ; 
And  of  fig-leaves  each  sinner  weaves 

A  guilty  apron  now. 
My  bell  I  ring  ;  I  pull  a  string  ; 

And  from  that  pleasant  spot 
A  Sword  of  Flame  drives  man  and  dame  ; 

And  this  is  true,  God  wot. 

VII. 

Now  wipe  the  glass.     And  we  will  pass 

To  quite  another  scene  : 
In  a  strange  land  two  Altars  stand, 

One  red,  the  other  green  ; 
The  one  of  blood  right  sweet  and  good, 

The  other  weeds,  I  ween  ! 
And  there,  full  plain,  stands  frowning  Cain, 

And  Abel  spruce  and  clean. 
I  pull  a  string  ;  and  every  thing 

Grows  dark  and  sad  anew, — 
There  Abel  lies  with  dying  eyes  I 

And  this,  God  wot,  is  true. 

VIII. 

The  wicked  Cain  has  Abel  slain 

All  with  a  burning  brand  ; 
And  now,  sad  sight,  an  Angel  bright 

Doth  mark  him  with  his  hand. 


What  specks  so  red  are  those  that  spread 
Behind  them  as  they  stand? 

SHOWMAN. 

The  sparks  you  see  the  wild  eyes  be, 

Countless  as  grains  of  sand, 
Of  all  those  men  who  have,  since  then. 

Shed  blood  in  any  land  ! 
In  grief  and  pain  they  look  at  Cain, 

Aghast  on  that  sad  spot ; 
And  all  around  blood  soaks  the  ground  ; 

And  this  is  true,  God  wot. 

IX. 

My  bell  I  ring  ;  I  pull  a  string : 
Now,  Father  Noah  you  mark — 

Sleeping  he  lies,  with  heavy  eyes, 
All  full  of  wine,  and  stark. 


But  now,  behold  !  that  good  man  old 

A  Voice  in  dream  doth  hark  ; 
And  the  Voice  cries,  '  O  Noah,  arise  1 

And  build  thyself  an  Ark. ' 
Again  I  ring  ;  and  pull  a  string  ; 

And  all  is  water  blue, 
Where,  floating  free,  the  Ark  you  see ; 

And  this,  God  wot,  is  true. 


Thus  God  the  Lord,  with  his  great  Word, 

Did  bid  the  waters  rise, 
To  drown  and  kill  all  things  of  ill 

He  made  beneath  the  skies. 
Tne  Lord  saved  none,  but  Noah  alone, 

His  kith  and  kin  likewise  ; 
Two  of  each  beast,  both  great  and  least  ; 

Two  of  each  bird  that  flies. 
My  bell  I  ring ;  I  pull  a  string  ; 

And  on  the  self-same  spot, 
The  water  sinks,  the  bright  Bow  blinks  ; 

And  this  is  true,  God  wot. 


O  day  and  night,  unto  your  sight 

Such  wonders  shown  might  be, 
But  to  conclude  this  Peepshow  good, 

You  Heaven  and  Hell  shall  see  : 
The  shining  things,  with  spangled  wings, 

Who  smile  and  sing  so  free  ; 
The  crew  of  shame,  who  in  hell-flame 

Complain  eternallie  ! 
My  bell  I  ring  ;  I  pull  a  string  ; 

And  you  them  both  may  view — 
The  blest  on  high,  the  curst  who  cry  : — 

And  this,  Got  wot,  is  true. 

XII. 
A   CHILD. 

How  can  they  bear,  who  sit  up  there 

In  shining  robes  so  gay, 
From  Heaven  to  peer,  without  a  tear, 

On  those  who  scream  and  pray  ? 

SHOWMAN. 
Why,  those  who  burn  had,  you  must  learn, 

As  fair  a  chance  as  they — 
But  Adam's  fall  doth  doom  them  all 

Upon  God's  judgment  day. 
I  thus  conclude  with  moral  good, 

Not  soon  to  be  forgot  ; 
And  you  must  own  what  I  have  shown 

Is  solemn  sooth,  Got  wot. 


THE  DEVILS  PEEPSHOIV— DAYBREAK— EUPHROSYNE.     519 


XIII. 

A   LITTLE   BOY. 

O  look  at  him,  that  showman  grim, 

A  frown  is  on  his  cheek  ; 
Come  away  quick,  for  I  am  sick 

Whene'er  I  hear  him  speak  ! 

A  GIRL. 
Along  this  way,  last  Holy  Day, 

In  blessed  Whitsun1  week, 
There  passed  a  wight,  so  sweet  and  bright 

He  seemed  an  Angel  meek  : 
He  bare,  also,  an  old  Peep-show, 

But  prettier  far  to  view, 
And  loud  cried  He  '  O  look  and  see  ! 

For  all,  God  wot,  is  true  ! ' 

XIV. 
CHILDREN. 

And  did  you  peep?  and  did  you  weep 
To  see  the  pictures  wild  ? 


Ah  nay,  ah  nay,  I  laughed,  full  gay, 

I  looked  and  laughed  and  smiled  ! 
For  I  discern'd,  with  bright  face  turned 

On  mine,  a  little  Child  ; 
And  round  him,  bright  burn'd  many  a  light, 

And  cakes  and  sweets  were  piled  ; 
And  scents  most  rare  fill'd  all  the  air 

All  round  the  heavenly  spot, 
While  loud  and  wide  that  Showman  cried — 

'  This  is  our  Lord,  God  wot  1 ' 

XV. 
FIRST    CHILD. 

'Twas  Jesus  Child  !  so  good  and  mild  ! 
He  grew  on  Mary's  breast ! 


Sweet  were  his  eyes,  his  look  was  wise, 

And  his  red  lips  were  blest ; 
I  longed,  I  wis,  those  lips  to  kiss, 

And  by  his  side  to  rest. 
This  man's  Peepshow  is  strange,  I  know, 

But  the  other  was  the  best ! 
Now  let  us  go  where  daisies  blow, 

Sweet  ferns,  and  speedwells  blue, 
And  Posies  make  for  Christ  His  sake, 

For  He  is  bright  and  true ! 


XVI. 

SHOWMAN   (solus). 

Folk,  I'm  afraid,  are  changed  ;  my  trade 

Grows  worse  each  day,  I  know. 
How  they  did  throng  when  I  was  young, 

To  see  this  very  Show  ! 
My  rivals  pass,  and  lad  and  lass 

Follow  where'er  they  go, 
While  up  and  down,  from  town  to  town, 

/  creep,  most  sad  and  slow. 
I  too  must  try  some  novel  cry, 

Lest  I  be  quite  forgot : 
These  pictures  old  that  I  unfold 

Have  ceased  to  please,  God  wot ! 


DA  Y BREAK. 

FRAGMENT. 

BUT  now  the  first  faint  flickering  ray 

Fell  from  the  cold  east  far  away, 

The  birds  awoke  and  twitter'd,  hover'd, 

The  dim  leaves  sparkled  in  the  dew — 
Earth  slowly  her  dark  head  uncover'd 

And  held  her  blind  face  up  the  blue, 
Till  the  fresh  consecration  came 
In  yellow  beams  of  orient  flame, 
Touching  her,  and  she  breathed  full  blest 
With  lilies  heaving  on  her  breast. 
Seas  sparkled,  dark  capes  glimmer'd  green, 
As  Dawn  crept  on  from  scene  to  scene, 
Lifting  each  curtain  of  the  night 
With  fingers  flashing  starry-white. 


EUPHROSYNE;  OR,    THE 
PROSPECT. 

1  FREED  from  its  tenement  of  clay 
(So  the  prophetic  legend  ran), 

As  pure  as  dew,  as  bright  as  day, 
Shall  rise  the  Soul  of  Man.' 

I  read  ;  and  in  the  shade  by  me 

Sat  golden-haired  Euphrosyne. 

Above  our  shaded  orchard  seat 
The  boughs  stirred  scented  in  the  light. 

And  on  the  grass  beneath  our  feet 
Lay  blossoms  pink  and  white  ; 

I  held  the  book  upon  my  knee, 

Translating  to  Euphrosyne.. 


520 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


'Twas  an  old  melancholy  rune, 
Writ  by  a  Norseman  long  ago — 

Sad  with  the  sense  of  stars  and  moon, 
Sea-wash,  and  frost,  and  snow — 

A  vision  of  futurity  ! 

And  wide-eyed  heard  Euphrosyne. 

'  Stately  and  slow  the  heart  shall  beat 
To  the  low  throb  of  Time's  soft  tide, 

While,  shaded  from  the  solar  heat, 
The  Shapes  walk  heavenly-eyed.' 

All  round  us  burnt  the  starry  lea, 

And  warmly  sighed  Euphrosyne. 

'  All  shall  be  innocent  and  fair, 

Dim  as  a  dream  the  days  shall  pass- 
No  weed  of  shame  shall  blossom  there, 

No  snake  crawl  on  the  grass.' — 
'  How  happy  such  a  world  will  be  ! ' 
Sighed  beautiful  Euphrosyne. 

'  Flesh  shall  be  fled,  sense  shall  be  still, 
The  old  grey  earth  buried  and  dead ; 

The  wicked  world,  with  all  things  ill — 
Stone,  rock,  and  tree— be  fled.' — 

'  No  earth,  no  world  ! '  softly  sighed  she, 

The  little  maid,  Euphrosyne. 

She  clasped  her  hands,  she  cast  her  eyes 
Over  the  landscape  bright  with  May — 

Scented  and  sweet,  'neath  cloudless  skies, 
Smiled  the  green  world  that  day — 

Loud  sang  the  thrush,  low  hummed  the  bee, 

And  softly  sighed  Euphrosyne. 

'Sickness  shall  perish,  grief  and  pain 
Be  buried  with  the  buried  life ; 

The  aching  heart,  the  weary  brain, 
At  last  shall  cease  their  strife.' — 

The  grey  tome  trembled  on  my  knee, 

But  happy  sat  Euphrosyne. 

4  The  luminous  house  wherein  we  dwell, 
The  haunted  house  of  shame  and  lust, 

The  callow  spirit's  fleshly  shell, 
Shall  crumble  into  dust ; 

The  flower  shall  fade,  the  scent  fly  free  ! ' — 

She  trembled  now,  Euphrosyne. 

Her  warm,  white  bosom  heaved  with  sighs, 
I  felt  her  light  breath  come  and  go, 

She  drank,  with  glorious  lips  and  eyes, 
The  summer's  golden  glow  ; 

She  felt  her  life,  and  sighed  '  Ay,  me  1 ' 

The  flower  of  maids,  Euphrosyne. 


1  And  with  the  flower  of  flesh  shall  fade 
The  venom'd  bloom  of  earthly  love, 

No  passion-trance  of  man  and  maid 
Shall  taint  the  life  above ; 

Flesh  shall  be  fled,  sex  shall  not  be  !'— 

I  paused,  and  watched  Euphrosyne. 

Her  hands  were  folded  round  her  knees, 
Her  eyes  were  fix'd  in  a  half-dream  ; 

She  shared  the  flame  of  flowers  and  trees, 
And  drank  the  summer  gleam  ; 

'  Kiss  sweet,  kiss  sweet ! '  upon  the  tree 

The  thrush  sang,  to  Euphrosyne. 

A  little  maid  of  seventeen  Mays, 
A  happy  child  with  golden  hair, 

What  should  she  know  of  Love's  wild  ways, 
Its  hope,  its  pain,  and  prayer? 

'  No  love'vn.  heaven  ?— how  strange  'twill  be ! ' 

Still  musing,  sighed  Euphrosyne. 

'  No  thoughts  of  perishable  mould 
Shall  break  the  rule  of  heavenly  rest, 

But  larger  light,  more  still,  more  cold, 
More  beautiful  and  blest.' — 

Her  heart  was  fluttering  close  to  me, 

And  quickly  breathed  Euphrosyne. 

'  There  shall  be  no  more  love  I ' — but  here 
I  paused,  for  from  my  side  she  sprang, 

And  in  her  bird's  voice,  loud  and  clear, 
Of  love's  young  dream  she  sang — 

'  Oh,  close  the  foolish  book  ! '  cried  she, 

The  happy  maid  Euphrosyne. 

I  closed  the  book,  and  from  my  hold 
She  took  it  with  her  fingers  white, 

Then  down  the  path  of  green  and  gold 
She  tripped  with  laughter  light — 

'  The  book,  not  the  glad  world,  shall  be 

Deep-buried,'  said  Euphrosyne. 

Within  an  elm-tree's  hollow  bole, 
Into  the  darkness  damp  and  green, 

She  thrust  it,  closing  up  the  hole 
With  sprays  of  lilac  sheen — 

Then,  all  the  radiant  flush  of  glee 

Fast  faded  from  Euphrosyne. 

Pensively  in  the  summer  shine 

Her  blue  eyes  filled  with  tears  of  bliss  ; 
She  held  her  little  mouth  to  mine 

In  one  long  heavenly  kiss — 
4 1  love  the  earth,  and  life,  and  theel' 
She  whispered,  my  Euphrosyne. 


EUPHROSYNE-ON  A    YOUNG  POETESS'S  GRAVE. 


52J 


Sleep,  Book,  within  thy  burial  place, 
With  flowers  and  fruit  for  epitaph  ! 

Kind  Heaven,  stoop  down  thy  sunny  face 
To  hear  the  Earth's  glad  laugh  ! 

Smile,  with  your  glorious  eyes  on  me, 

O  child  of  joy !  Euphrosyne  ! 

STANLEY  FARM. 

COME,  love,  and  while  the  landscape  glows 

Red  in  the  setting  sun, 
Let  us  repair  to  Stanley  Farm, 

Where  thou  wast  wooed  and  won. 

The  river  runs  through  a  narrow  glen, 

And  shooting  past  the  mill, 
It  lingers  near  the  burial-ground 

Where  the  dark  dead  lie  still. 

Then  fresh  and  free  it  shooteth  through 
The  bridge  at  headlong  speed  ; 

But  when  the  village  bridge  is  past, 
It  comes  to  marsh  and  mead  ; 

And  broadening  out  with  slacken'd  pace, 

It  fringes  green  flat  land, 
Where,  blanched  white  by  frequent  floods, 

Long  lines  of  pollards  stand. 

And  now  within  its  shallow  pools, 
The  blue-winged  hern  doth  wade, 

Still  as  a  stone,  with  crooked  neck 
Above  his  floating  shade. 

And  water-lilies  fringe  the  brim, 

And  all  is  sedge  and  reed, 
Save  one  small  stream  within  the  midst, 

That  winds  and  winds  with  speed. 

Then  down  comes  Thornby  Beck  and  gains 

The  river  with  a  cry, 
And  on  the  two  together  run, 

Under  the  English  sky. 

And  strong  and  deep  the  stream  has  grown, 

As  well  as  broad  and  wide, 
On  reaching  Stanley  Farm,  that  sits 

Upon  the  water's  side. 

How  still  it  is  !  how  bright  it  is, 

These  happy  summer  weeks, 
When  cattle  wade,  in  the  dark  blue  pools 

Broken  to  silvern  streaks  ! 

But,  love,  hast  thou  forgot  the  Yule, 

Twenty  long  years  ago  ? 
The  level  meads  around  the  stream 

Were  white  with  ice  and  snow. 


The  river  was  frozen  white  and  blue, 

In  its  cold  weedy  bed  ; 
A  deep  black  fog  filled  all  the  air, 

And  in  the  fog,  o'erhead, 

Just  hovering  close  to  earth,  as  small 
As  a  school-boy's  pink  balloon, 

The  wandering  sun  looked  strange  and  cold 
As  the  red  wintry  moon. 

The  fog  was  dark,  and  darkest  there 

Above  the  river's  bed, 
And  from  the  windows  of  the  farm 

All  day  the  lights  gleamed  red. 

But  when  the  sun's  ball  rolled  from  sight, 

The  wind  began  to  blow, 
The  chilly  fog  was  cleft  in  twain, 

And  the  moon  lit  up  the  snow  ! 

A  deep  blue  flower  with  a  golden  heart 
Hung  downwards,  was  the  sky, 

And  white  and  cold  in  swathes  of  snow 
Did  mead  and  hamlet  lie. 

And  ever  and  anon  the  wind 

Blew  up  a  cloud  so  pale, 
And  held  it  o'er  the  yellow  moon, 

Like  a  thin  lawny  veil. 

And  through  its  folds  the  bright'ning  morn 
Gazed,  breathing  soft  and  slow, 

Till,  melted  with  her  breath,  the  cloud 
Was  shriven  into  snow. 

Then  ever  in  the  bright'ning  beam, 

As  each  soft  cloud  stole  by, 
We  saw  dark  figures  on  the  stream 

Gliding  with  merry  cry. 

Men  and  maidens,  old  and  young, 

The  skaters  frolicked  there  ; 
Like  shapes  within  a  dream,  their  forms 

Stole  through  the  mystic  air. 

ON  A    YOUNG  POETESS'S 
GRA  VE. 

UNDER  her  gentle  seeing, 

In  her  delicate  little  hand, 
They  placed  the  Book  of  Being, 

To  read  and  understand. 

The  Book  was  mighty 

Yea,  worn  and  eaten  with  age  ; 
Though  the  letters  looked  great  and  golden 

She  could  not  read  a  page. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


The  letters  fluttered  before  her, 
And  all  looked  darkly  wild  : 

Death  saw  her,  and  bent  o'er  her, 
As  she  pouted  her  lips  and  smiled. 

Then,  weary  a  little  with  tracing 
The  Book,  she  look'd  aside, 

And  lightly  smiling,  and  placing 
A  Flower  in  its  leaves,  she  died. 

She  died,  but  her  sweetness  fled  not, 
As  fly  the  things  of  power,— 

For  the  Book  wherein  she  read  not 
Is  the  sweeter  for  the  Flower. 


LOVE  IN  WINTER. 

A  GENRE   PICTURE. 
I. 

'  O  Love  is  like  the  roses, 

And  every  rose  shall  fall, 
For  sure  as  summer  closes 

They  perish  one  and  all. 
Then  love,  while  leaves  are  on  the  tree, 

And  birds  sing  in  the  bowers  : 
When  winter  comes,  too  late  'twill  be 

To  pluck  the  happy  flowers: 

It  is  a  maiden  singing, 

An  ancient  girl,  in  sooth  ; 
The  dizzy  room  is  ringing 

With  her  shrill  song  of  youth  ; 
The  white  keys  sob  as  fast  she  tries 

Each  shrill  and  shrieking  scale : 
'  O  love  is  like  the  roses  I '  cries 

This  muslin'd  nightingale.  .  .  . 

In  a  dark  corner  dozing 

I  close  my  eyes  and  ears, 
And  call  up,  while  reposing, 

A  glimpse  from  other  years  ; 
A  genre-picture,  quaint  and  Dutch, 

I  see  from  this  dark  seat, — 
'Tis  full  of  human  brightness,  such 

As  makes  remembrance  sweet. 

II. 

Flat  leagues  of  endless  meadows 
[In  Holland  lies  the  scene], 

Where  many  pollard-shadows 
O'er  nut-brown  ditches  lean ; 

Grey  clouds  above  that  dimly  break, 
Mists  that  pale  sunbeams  stripe, 


With  groups  of  steaming  cattle,  make 
A  landscape  'after  Cuyp.' 

A  windmill,  and  below  it 

A  cottage  near  a  road, 
Where  some  meek  pastoral  poet 

Might  make  a  glad  abode  ; 
A  cottage  with  a  garden,  where 

Prim  squares  of  pansies  grow, 
And  sitting  on  a  garden-chair, 

A  Dame  with  locks  of  snow. 

In  trim  black  truss'd  and  bodiced, 

With  petticoat  of  red, 
And  on  her  bosom  modest 

A  kerchief  white  bespread. 
Alas  !  the  breast  that  heaves  below 

Is  shrivell'd  now  and  thin, 
Tho'  vestal  thoughts  as  white  as  snow 

Still  palpitate  within. 

Her  hands  are  mitten'd  nicely, 

And  folded  on  her  knee  ; 
Her  lips,  that  meet  precisely, 

Are  moving  quietly. 
She  listens  while  the  dreamy  bells 

O'er  the  dark  flats  intone — 
Now  come,  now  gone,  in  dying  swells 

The  Sabbath  sounds  are  blown. 

Her  cheek  a  withered  rose  is, 

Her  eye  a  violet  dim  ; 
Half  in  her  chair  she  doses, 

And  hums  a  happy  hymn. 
But  soft !  what  wonder  makes  her  start 

And  lift  her  aged  head, 
While  the  faint  flutterings  of  her  heart 

Just  touch  her  cheek  with  red  ? 

The  latch  clicks  ;  thro'  the  gateway 

An  aged  wight  steps  slow — 
Then  pauses,  doffing  straightway 

His  broad-brim'd  gay  chapeau  ! 
Swallow-tail'd  cot  of  blue  so  grand, 

With  buttons  bright  beside, 
He  wears,  and  in  his  trembling  hand 

A  nosegay,  ribbon-tied. 

His  thin  old  legs  trip  lightly 

In  breeches  of  nankeen, 
His  face  is  shining  brightly, 

So  rosy,  fresh,  and  clean — 
Wrinkled  he  is  and  old  and  plain, 

With  locks  of  golden-grey, 
And  leaning  on  a  tassell'd  cane 

He  gladly  comes  this  way. 


LOVE  IN   WINTER- WILL  0'  THE   WISP. 


523 


Oh,  skylark,  singing  over 

The  silent  mill  hard  by, 
To  this  so  happy  lover 

Sing  out  with  summer  cry  ! 
He  hears  thee,  tho'  his  blood  is  cold, 

She  hears,  tho'  deaf  and  weak  ; 
She  stands  to  greet  him,  as  of  old, 

A  blush  upon  her  cheek. 

In  spring-time  they  were  parted 

By  some  sad  wind  of  woe  ; 
Forlorn  and  broken-hearted 

Each  faltered,  long  ago  ; 
They  sunder'd,  — half  a  century 

Each  took  the  path  of  pain — 
He  lived  a  bachelor,  and  she 

Was  never  woo'd  again  ! 

"tut  when  the  summer  ended, 

When  autumn,  too,  was  dead, 
When  every  vision  splendid 

Of  youth  and  hope  was  fled, 
Again  these  two  came  face  to  face 

As  in  the  long  ago — 
They  met  within  a  sunless  place 

In  the  season  of  the  snow. 

'  O  love  is  like  the  roses, 

Love  comes  and  love  must  fleet 
Before  the  summer  closes 

Love's  rapture  and  love  s  glee  ! ' 
O  peace  !  for  in  the  garden  there 

He  bows  in  raiment  gay  ; 
Doffs  hat,  and  with  a  courtly  air 

Presents  his  fond  bouquet 

One  day  in  every  seven, 

While  church-bells  softly  ring, 
The  happy,  silent  Heaven 

Beholds  the  self-same  thing  : 
The  gay  old  boy  within  the  gate, 

With  ribbons  at  his  knee  ! — 
'  When  winter  comes,  is  love  too  late  ?' 

O  Cupid,  look  and  see  ! 

O,  talk  not  of  love's  rapture, 

When  youthful  lovers  kiss  ; 
What  mortal  sight  may  capture 

A  scene  more  sweet  than  this  ? 
Beside  her  now  he  sits  and  glows, 

While  prim  she  sits  and  proud, — 
Then,  spectacles  upon  his  nose, 

Reads  the  week's  news  aloud  ! 

Pure,  with  no  touch  of  passion, 
True,  with  no  tinge  of  pain  ! 


Thus,  in  sweet  Sabbath  fashion, 

They  live  their  loves  again. 
She  sees  in  him  a  happy  boy — 

Swift,  agile,  amorous-eyed  ; 
He  sees  in  her  his  own  heart's  joy — 

Youth,  Hope,  Love,  vivified  ! 

Content  there  he  sits  smoking 

His  long  Dutch  pipe  of  wood  : 
Gossiping  oft  and  joking, 

As  a  gay  lover  should. 
And  oft,  while  there  in  company 

They  smile  for  Love's  sweet  sake, 
Her  snuff-box  black  she  hands,  and  he 

A  grave,  deep  pinch  doth  take  ! 

There,  gravely  juvenescent, 

In  sober  Sabbath  joy, 
Mingling  the  past  and  present, 

They  sit,  a  maid  and  boy ! 
1  O  love  is  like  the  roses  I ' — No  ! 

Thou  foolish  singer,  cease  ! 
Love  finds  the  fireside  'mid  the  snow, 

And  smokes  the  pipe  of  peace  ! 


WILL  0>  THE  WISP. 

A  BALLAD  WRITTEN   FOR  CLARI,    ON 
A  STORMY  NIGHT. 

JUST  an  inch  high 

With  a  body  all  yellow, 
A  bright  crimson  eye 
And  limbs  all  awry, 

Wakes  the  queer  little  fellow — 
Yes,  awakes  in  the  night, 
Rubs  his  eyes  in  a  fright, 

Yawns,  harks  to  the  thunder, 
While  the  glowworms  all  set 
Round  his  cradle  so  wet, 

Stare  at  him  in  wonder. 
How  it  blows  !  how  it  rains  I 
How  the  thunder  refrains  ! 
While  the  glowworms  so  wan, 

As  they  gather  together, 
Hear  the  quaint  little  man 

Squeak  faintly,  '  What  weather  ! ' 

'  Who  is  his  father  ? 

Who  is  his  mother?1 
They  cry  as  they  gather, 

And  puzzle,  and  pother — 
Such  a  queer  little  chap, 
Just  new-born  in  a  nap  ! 


524 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS  AND   BALLADS. 


And  such  antics  are  his 

As  he  springs  on  his  bed, 
Such  a  comical  phiz, 

Such  a  red, 

Shining  head  ! 
Hark  again, 
'Midst  the  rain 

How  the  deep  thunder  crashes  ! 
And  the  lightning 
Is  bright'ning 

In  fitful  blue  flashes  ! 
'  Here's  fun  !  here's  a  din  ! ' 
Cries  Will  with  a  grin — 
•  I'll  join  in  the  play — 
It's  darker  than  pitch 
In  this  hole  of  a  ditch, 
What  a  place  to  be  born  in— I'm  off  and 

away.' 

Out  on  the  heath 

It  rains  with  a  will. 
The  Wind  sets  his  teeth 

And  whistles  right  shrill 
All  is  darkness  and  sound, 

All  is  splishing  and  splashing ; 
The  pools  on  the  ground 

Glimmer  wet  in  the  flashing — 
Up  and  down,  round  and  round, 
With  a  leap  and  a  bound. 

Goes  the  little  one  dashing. 
'  Oh  what  fun  ! '  out  he  screams 
At  the  wild  blue  beams 

As  they  flicker  and  pass. 
Then  he  squats  down  and  seems 
With  his  nose's  red  gleams 

Like  a  lamp  in  the  grass  ; — 
Then  'mid  rain  washing  down,  and  the 

thunder  still  busy, 
He  flies  spinning  round,  till  he  pauses,  half 

dizzy. 

How  dark  and  how  still, 
In  the  arm  of  the  hill, 

Lies  the  hamlet  asleep — 
While  the  wind  is  so  shrill, 

And  the  darkness  so  deep  1 
Down  the  street  all  is  dark, 

And  closed  is  each  shutter  ; 
But  he  pauses  to  mark, 
His  face  like  a  spark 

In  the  black  polished  gutter  ! 
But  see  !  what  a  streak 

Gleams  out  from  the  inn  I 


Overhead  with  a  creak, 
And  a  groan  and  a  squeak, 

Shakes  the  sign  ;  while  the  din 

Comes  harsh  from  within. 
Hark  !— the  jingling  of  glasses, 

The  singers'  refrain  ! 
Will  stops  as  he  passes 

And  peeps  through  the  pane, 

Dripping,  slippery  with  rain, 
There  they  sit  and  they  joke, 
In  the  grey  cloud  of  smoke, 
While  the  jolly  old  host, 

With  his  back  to  the  fire, 
Stands  warm  as  a  toast, 

And  doth  smile  and  perspire. 
Grave,  thin,  and  pedantic, 

The  schoolmaster  sits, 
While,  in  argument  frantic 

With  riotous  wits, 
The  maker  of  boots 

Still  in  apron  of  leather, 
Thumps  the  board  and  disputes, 
Contradicts  and  refutes ; 
And  like  sparrows  collected,  all  birds  of 

feather, 
All  smoking  long  pipes,  and  all  nodding 

together, 
The  Wiseacres  gather,  screen'd  snug  from 

the  weather. 

Great,  broad,  and  brown, 

Stands  the  jug  on  the  board, 

And  the  ale  is  poured, 
And  they  quaff  it  down. 
How  it  froths,  fresh  and  strong, 

Warm,  sweet,  full  of  spice  ! 
Will's  beginning  to  long 

For  a  sip, — 'tis  so  nice  ! 
So  he  whispers  the  Wind, 

Who  runs  round  from  the  lane, 
And  they  creep  in  behind, 
And  the  Wind  tries  to  find 

An  entrance  in  vain. 
Then  '  The  Chimney  ! '  cries  Will, 
While  the  Wind  laughs  out  shrill, 
And  he  leaps  at  one  bound 

To  the  roof  up  on  high, 
While  the  chimneys  all  round 

Tremble  and  cry. 


One  moment  he  pauses 
Up  yonder,  and  draws  his 
Breath  deep  and  strong, 


WILL  0*  THE  WISP. 


525 


Then  dives  like  a  snake, 
While  the  dwelling  doth  quake, 

To  the  room  where  they  throng. 
Ho,  ho  !  with  one  blow 
Out  the  lights  go, 

Dark  and  silent  is  all. 
But  the  fire  burns  low 

With  its  ghost  on  the  wall. 
'  What  a  night !    Ah,  here's  weather  ! ' 
All  murmur  together 

With  voices  sunk  low, 
While  softly  slips  Will 
In  the  jug,  drinks  his  fill, 

And  is  turning  to  go, 
When  a  hand,  while  none  mark, 

Lifts  the  jug  in  the  dark  ; 
'Tis  the  cobbler  so  dry 

Seeks  to  drink  on  the  sly ! 
Tarala !  pirouette  ! 

Will  springs  at  his  nose, 
The  jug  is  upset, 

And  the  liquor  o'erflows. 
'  What's  that  ? '  all  exclaim, 

Leaping  up  with  a  shout, 
While  the  cobbler  in  shame, 
With  nose  all  aflame, 

Cries,  •  The  Devil,  no  doubt ! ' 
And  as  fresh  lights  are  brought 

These  birds  of  a  feather 
Think  it  quite  a  new  thought 

To  nod  gravely  together, 
Crying  hot  and  distraught, 

1  Well,  indeed  !  this  is  weather  ! ' 

Tarala  !  pirouette  ! 
Out  again  in  the  wet ! 
Like  a  small  dancing  spa^k, 

With  his  face  flashing  bright 
In  the  black  dripping  dark, 

Goes  the  elf  of  the  night 
Hark !  from  the  church-tower, 
Slowly  chimeth  the  hour  ! 

Twelve  times  low  and  deep, 
Comes  the  chime  through  the  shower 

On  the  village  asleep  ; — 
And  where  ivies  enfold 

The  belfry,  doth  sit, 
Huddled  up  from  the  cold, 
The  owl  grey  and  old, 

With  '  Toowhoo '  and  '  Tcowhit ! ' 

'  Heigho  !  '—yawns  poor  Will — 

'  Time  for  bed,  by  the  powers  1 ' 
And  he  lights  on  a  sill, 


Among  flower-pots  and  flowers, 
And  just  as  he  seems 

To  slumber  inclined, 
A  white  hand  forth-gleams 

From  within,  and  the  blind 
Is  drawn  back,  and  oh  dear  1 

What  a  beautiful  sight  t 
Clari's  face  doth  appear 

Looking  out  at  the  night 
And  Clari  doth  stand, 
With  the  lamp  in  her  hand, 

In  her  bedgown  of  white — 
Her  hair  runs  like  gold  on  her  shoulders, 

and  fills 
With  gleams  of  gold-shadow  her  tucks  and 

her  frills, 

And  her  face  is  as  sweet  as  a  star,  and  below 
Her  toes  are  like  rosebuds  that  peep  among 
snow. 

Breathless  with  wonder, 

Quiet  and  still, 
He  crouches  under 

The  pots  on  the  sill ; 
Then  the  blind  closes  slow, 

And  the  vision  doth  fade, 
But  still  to  and  fro 

On  the  blind  moves  the  shade — 
There  !  out  goes  the  light ! 

Will  lifts  up  his  head, 
All  is  darker  than  night, 

She  is  creeping  to  bed. 
Oh,  light  be  her  rest ! 
She  steals  into  her  nest, 

Without  a  beholder, 
And  the  bed,  soft  and  warm, 
Swells  up  round  her  form 

To  receive  and  enfold  her  ! 

[The  wind  is  increasing, 
But  the  rain  is  ceasing, 
And  blown  up  from  the  west 

Comes  the  moon  wan  and  high. 
With  a  cloud  on  her  crest, 

And  a  tear  in  her  eye. 
Distraught  and  opprest, 

She  drifts  wearily  by  !] 

1  Heigho  ! '  yawns  poor  Will — 
Still  crouch'd  down  on  the  sill — 

'  How  sleepy  I  feel ! 
There's  a  cranny  up  there 
To  let  in  the  fresh  air, — 

Here  goes  !  in  I'll  steal  1 ' 


126 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


So  said  and  so  done, 

And  he  enters  the  room 
Where  the  dainty-limb'd  one,  like  a  lily  in 

bloom, 
Her  face  a  dim  brightness,  her  breath  a 

perfume, 

Sleeps  softly.    With  noiseless  invisible  tread 
The  wanderer  steals  to  the  side  of  the  bed 
Where  she  lies,  oh  how  fair  !  so  sweet  and 

so  warm, 
While  the  white  clothes  sink  round  the  soft 

mould  of  her  form  ; 

One  hand  props  her  cheek,  and  one  unespied 
Lies  rising  and  falling  upon  her  soft  side. 
Will  floats  to  and  fro,  and  the  light  that  he 

throws 

Just  lights  this  or  that  as  she  lies  in  repose, 
Leaving  all  the  rest  dark.     See  !  he  hops 

"mong  her  hair 
And  shines  like  a  jewel  ;— then  leans  down 

to  stare 
In  her  face, — and  his  ray  as  he  trembles 

and  spies 
Just  flashes  against  the  white  lids  of  her 

eyes ; — 
While  her  breath — oh    her  breath  is    so 

sweet  and  so  fine, 
Will  drinks  and   turns  dizzy — his   joy  is 

divine, 
And  his  light  flashing  down  shows  the  red 

lips  apart, 

To  free  the  deep  fragrance  that  steals  from 
her  heart 

Just  an  inch  high, 

With  a  body  all  yellow, 
A  bright  crimson  eye, 
And  limbs  all  awry, 

Stands  the  queer  little  fellow  ! 
And  Clari's  sweet  mouth 

Just  a  little  asunder, 
Sweet  with  spice  from  the  South, 

Fills  his  spirit  with  wonder : 
Such  a  warm  little  mouth  ! 
Such  a  red  little  mouth  ! 
The  thin  bud  above  and  the  plump  blossom 

under ! 
'  Heigho,  heart's  alive  ! 

Here's  a  door,  here  I'll  rest ! ' 
And  he  takes  one  quick  dive 

And  slips  into  her  breast  1 
And  there  may  he  thrive 

Like  a  bird  in  a  nest ! 


And  Clari  turns  over 

And  flushes  and  sighs, 
Pushes  back  the  warm  cover, 

Half  opens  her  eyes, 
Then  sinking  again 

Warm,  languid,  and  bright, 
With  new  bliss  in  her  brain, 

Dreams— such  dreams — of  delight ! 
She  tosses  and  turns 

In  visions  divine  ; 
For  within  her  Will  burns 

Like  a  lamp  in  a  shrine  ! 

.  .  And  now  you've  the  reason  that  Clari 

is  gay, 

As  a  bird  on  the  bough  or  a  brooklet  at  play ; 
And  now  you've  the  reason  why  Clari  is 

bright, 
Why  she  smiles  all  the  day  and  is  glad  all 

the  night ; 
For  the  light  having  entered  her  bosom 

remains, 
Darts  fire  to  her  glances  and  warmth  thro 

her  veins, 
Makes  her  tricksy  and  merry,  yet  full  of  the 

power 
Of  the  wind  and  the  rain,  and  the  storm 

and  the  shower ; 
Half  wise  in  the  ways  of  the  world,  and 

half  simple, 

As  sly  as  a  kiss  is,  as  deep  as  a  dimple, 
A  spirit  that  sings  like  a  bird  on  a  tree, — 
'  I  love  my  love,  and  my  love  loves  me  ! ' 


GIANT  DESPAIR. 


His  DEATH. 

SAD  is  the  plight  of  Giant  Despair, 
In  Doubting  Castle  sick  lies  he  ! 

The  castle  is  built  on  a  headland  bare, 
And  looks  on  the  wash  of  a  whirling  Sea, 

With  the  noise  in  his  ears  and  the  gleam  in 

his  eyes 
Of  the  breaking  waves  that  beneath  him 

beat, 

Propi  on  pillows  the  Giant  lies, 
Pillowed,  too,  are  his  gouty  feet. 

In  and  out  the  Leeches  of  Souls 

Run  and  chatter  and  prate  and  pray — 


GIANT  DESPAIR, 


527 


But  the  great  wind  wails  and  the  thunder 

rolls : 
None  may  banish  his  gloom  away. 

With  parchment  cheek  and  lack-lustre  eye 
He  looketh  out  on  the  stormy  scene — 

Cruel  is  he  and  bloody  and  sly, 
Lustful  and  bad  his  life  hath  been. 

O  Priests  who  stand  and  whisper  there, 
While  he  groans  and  curses  and  shrinks 
for  fear, 

What  can  ye  say  to  Giant  Despair 
To  comfort  him  now  his  end  is  near  ? 

Fat  and  oily  and  sweet,  cries  one  : — 
Comfort,  O  comfort  1  for  heaven  is  sure — 

There  the  believer  shall  revel  in  fun, 
And  all  delight  that  is  plump  and  pure. 

'  Nothing  delicious  the  Lord  denies, 
Rosy  wine  he  shall  drink  in  bliss ' — 

'Add,  moreover,'  another  cries, 

'  Waists  to  encircle  and  lips  to  kiss. ' 

With  parchment  cheek  and  lack-lustre  eye 
The  Giant  lies  and  makes  no  sign  : 

Women's  falsehood  has  made  him  sigh, 
He  is  sick  of  the  very  sight  of  wine. 

'  Comfort ! '  another  crieth  loud, 
'  Full  of  music  shall  be  thy  breast, 

Thou  shalt  sit  full  proud  on  a  rosy  cloud, 
Happy  and  idle,  amongst  the  blest— 

•  AH  shall  be  stainless  and  sweet  and  fair  ; 

All  shall  be  merry  from  night  to  morn. ' 
Giant  Despair  stirred  in  his  chair, 

Scowled  at  the  speaker  and  grunted  scorn. 

Then  one  said  this  and  one  said  that, 
And  all  were  full  of  the  world  to  be  : 

Yet  duller  and  bitter  the  Giant  sat 
Scowling  out  at  the  sullen  Sea. 

And  all  the  storm  of  the  wind  and  rain, 
And  all  the  rage  of  the  wrathful  wave, 

Flowed  in  and  out  of  the  Giant's  brain 
As  the  surge  in  and  out  of  a  dank  sea- 
cave. 

Forth,  at  last,  stept  a  shape  so  grey, 
Crown'd  with  poppy,  and  shrouded  deep 

He  touch1  d  the  Giant  with  hand  of  clay. 
And  held  a  goblet — '  Drink  this,  and  sleep, 

Over  thy  grave  the  grass  shall  grow — 
Roses  too,  the  white  and  the  red — 


The  generations  shall  come  and  go, 
But  thou  shalt  slumber,'  the  spirit  said 

Many  a  year  shall  blossom  and  fade, 
Many  a.  life  be  given  and  taken, 
Ere  from  thy  sleep  in  the  silent  shade 
Thou,   with  a  thrill  of  new  life,    shalt 
waken. 

The  Giant  smiled.     Still  loud  and  strong 
Sounded  the  sob  of  the  weary  Sea. 

'  My  ears  are  sick  ! — may  my  sleep  be  long  ! 
For  ever  and  ever,  if  that  may  be. ' 

II. 

AFTER 

Who  on  the  Giant's  tomb 
Sits  in  the  twilight  gloom, 

With  white  hands  folded  ? 
Her  breath  comes  fresh  and  warm  ; 
Silent  she  waits,  a  form 

Divinely  moulded. 

Maiden  she  is  ;  with  eyes 
That  search  the  dark  still  skies 

She  sits  in  shadow  ; 
Strewn  scented  at  her  feet 
Are  rue  and  lilies  sweet, 

And  flowers  o'  the  meadow. 

And  in  her  wild  black  hair 
Are  wild  weeds  passing  fair, 

Pluck'd  from  dark  places — 
Dumb,  dead,  her  sweet  lips  are, 
And  fixed  as  a  star 

Her  marble  face  is. 

Under  God's  starless  cope, 
Vestured  in  white  sits  Hope, 

A  musing  maiden, 
Under  a  yew  sits  she, 
Watching  most  silently 

The  gates  of  Eden. 

Afar  away  they  shine  ! 
While  up  those  depths  divine 

Her  eyes  are  turning — 
And  one  by  one  on  high 
The  strange  lamps  of  the  sky 

Are  dimly  burning. 

Such  sounds  as  fill'd  with  care 
The  dark  heart  of  Despair 
Disturb  her  never, — 


528 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


Tho'  close  to  her  white  feet 
That  mighty  Sea  doth  beat, 
Moaning  for  ever. 

She  sees  the  foam-flash  gleam, 
She  hears,  in  a  half  dream, 

The  muffled  thunder. 
The  salt  dew  fills  her  hair  ; 
Her  thoughts  are  otherwhere, 

Watching  in  wonder. 

There  let  her  sit  alone, 
Ev'n  as  a  shape  of  stone 

In  twilight  gleaming ; 
Despair's  pale  monument, 
There  let  her  sit,  content, 

Waiting  and  dreaming. 

Ah  !  which  were  sweetest,  best  ? 
With  dead  Despair  to  rest 

In  sleep  unbroken  ; 
Or  with  that  marble  Maid 
To  watch,  to  sit  in  the  shade, 

Waiting  a  token  ? 


THE  MOUNTAIN  WELL. 

HERE,  on  the  sultry  mountain's  face, 
Although  the  heat  broods  bright  around, 

The  runlet,  in  a  mossy  place, 

Drips,  drop  by  drop,  without  a  sound, 

Into  a  basin  cool  yet  bright, 

Half-shaded  from  the  golden  light 

All  is  as  still  as  sleep  ;  on  high 

The  clouds  float  soft  and  white  as  wool ; 
Fern-fringed  crags  and  boulders  lie 

Sun-parch'd  around  the  dewy  pool ; 
Beneath,  the  mountain  pathway  twines, 
Above,  peaks  rise  and  sunlight  shines. 

How  still  it  is  1  nought  moves  or  stirs. 

Afar  below,  the  lake  of  blue, 
With  purple  islands  dark  with  firs, 

Gleams  smooth  as  glass  and  dim  as  dew : 
And  mountain,  isle,  and  woodland  rest 
Within  the  mirror  of  its  breast. 

All  motionless  on  yonder  stone 

The  white  grouse  crouches  in  the  light ; 
On  high  among  the  crags,  alone, 

The  eagle  sheathes  his  piercing  sight, 
Clutching  the  peak  amid  the  heat, 
His  shadow  black' ning  at  his  feet. 


No  living  thing  that  flies  or  creeps 
Comes  near  the  well  this  noontide  hour 

The  sunlight  scorches  crags  and  steeps, 
The  heather  shrinks  its  purple  flower  ; 

The  wild  brook  glisters  in  its  bed, 

Silent  and  faded  to  a  thread. 

But  when  the  sun  is  in  the  west, 

And  sheds  soft  crimson  o'er  the  place, 
The  grey-hen  creeping  from  her  nest, 

Leaving  her  dull  brown  eggs  a  space, 
Comes  hither,  pausing  on  the  brink 
With  quick  sharp  eyes,  and  stoops  to  drink. 

Or  from  the  stones  the  foumart  slim 
Doth  hither  steal  at  eve  to  cool 

His  bloody  mouth  ;  or  on  the  brim 
The  blue  hare,  shadow'd  in  the  pool, 

Sits  up  erect,  and  thro'  the  rocks 

Springs,  at  the  coming  of  the  fox. 

How  many  a  strange  and  gentle  thing 
Hath  seen  its  face  reflected  here  ! 

How  oft  at  gloaming  hath  the  spring 
Mirror'd  the  moist  eyes  of  the  deer, 

While  glen  and  corry,  peak  and  height, 

Were  redd'ning  in  the  rosy  light ! 

Here  stain'd  with  blood  and  foamy-lipt, 
The  stag  of  ten  hath  paused  for  breath, 

His  blood  in  the  sad  pool  hath  dript 
Dark,  drop  by  drop,  before  his  death, 

While  he  has  watched,  with  looks  of  woe, 

The  hunter  toiling  from  below. 

How  sweet  it  lies  !  how  dark  and  cool ! 

Half  shaded  by  the  crag  on  high, 
A  tiny  place,  a  shallow  pool, 

Yet  with  its  own  dark  depth  of  sky — 
Renewed  for  ever  with  no  will 
By  the  soft  trickling  of  the  hill. 

All  thro'  the  dim  and  dewy  night 
It  gathers  coolness  drop  by  drop, 

While  in  the  moon  the  crags  gleam  white, 
And  on  the  silent  mountain  top 

The  evening  star  of  liquid  dew 

Gleams  like  a  diamond  in  the  blue. 

A  never-empty  hand,  a  dim 

Dark  eye  for  dews  of  love  to  fill, 

A  constant  cup  full  to  the  brim, 
Hast  thou,  O  fount  upon  the  hill. 

I  stoop  and  kiss  thy  lips  ;  and  so, 

Refresh'd,  I  bless  thee  as  I  go. 


2  HE  SONG  OF  THE  SHEALING—THE  SECRET  OF  THE  MERE.    $29 


THE  SONG  OF   THE 
SHEALING.* 

O  WHO  sits  and  sings  the  sad  song  of  the 

Shealing, 

Alone  on  the  hill-side,  alone  in  the  night ! 
Dead  still  through  the  shadows  the  moon- 
light is  stealing, 
The  dew's  on  the  heather,  the  mist  on  the 

height. 

She  sitteth  in  silence,  and  singeth  so  slowly ; 
She  milks  the  dark  kine  with  her  fingers 

so  fair. 

White  woe  of  the  lost,  may  her  vigil  be  holy ! 
The  song  of  the  Shealing  is  sad  on  the  air. 

Dark  strewn  on  the  grass  are  the  stones  of 

the  Shealing, 
The  wild  leek  and  nettle  grow  black  over 

all; 
Here  morning  to  gloaming  the  black  hawk 

is  wheeling, 
And  foumart  and  stoat  suckle  young  in 

the  wall. 
It's  lonely  by  daylight,  but  nightly,  ah! 

nightly, 
She  comes  from  her  cave,  with  her  kine, 

and  sits  there. 
Oh,  hearken  !  she  sings,  and  her  face  gleams 

so  whitely : 
The  song  of  the  Shealing  is  sad  on  the  air. 

O  who  would  not  hark  to  the  song  of  the 

Shealing ! 

I  stand  in  the  shadow,  I  listen  and  sigh  ; 
The  day  comes  again,  happy  voices  are 

pealing, 
The  blue  smoke  curls  up  to  the  sweet 

summer  sky ; 

O  red  in  the  sunset  the  kine  gather  yonder, 
The  maidens  are  milking  with  rosy  feet 

bare ; 
The  sheep-dog  is  barking,— I  hear  it  and 

ponder, — 
The  song  of  the  Shealing  is  sad  on  the  air. 

O  green  was  the  pasture,  and  sweet  was  the 
Shealing, 

1  The  rude  cluster  of  huts  in  the  midst  of  the 
distant  pasturage  whither  the  cattle  were  driven 
in  summer,  and  where  they  grazed  for  many 
weeks,  attended  by  the  women  and  maidens  of 
the  farm. 


And  kind  were  the  maidens  barefooted 

and  free, 
And  full  of  enchantment  was  Love's  tender 

feeling 
When  the  moon  rose  so  silently  up  from 

the  sea. 
And  on  the  green  knolls  walked  the  loved 

and  the  lover, 
Wrapt  warm    in  one  plaid,   with    one 

thought  and  one  care  : 
I  see  them  !  I  hear  them  !  my  heart's  run- 

ning  over, — 
The  song  of  the  Shealing  is  sad  on  the  air. 

O   spirit   of  whiteness,  O  Ghost  of  the 

Shealing ! 
Sing  on,  and  sing  low  in  the  shade  of  the 

hill; 

The  picture  has  faded  your  voice  was  re- 
vealing, 
The  white  owl  looks  out  through  the 

threshold  so  chill. 
There's  a  star  on  Ben  Rannoch  shines  softly 

above  you, 
It  sparkles  all  night  on  the  dew  in  your 

hair : 
White  Soul  of  the  Silence,  we  hear  you  and 

love  you, — 
The  song  of  the  Shealing  is  sad  on  the  air. 


THE  SECRET  OF   THE  MERE. 

I  BUILT  a  hut  beside  the  Mere, 
A  lowly  hut  of  turf  and  stone ; 

Therein  I  thought  from  year  to  year 
To  dwell  in  silence  and  alone, 

Watching  the  lights  of  heaven  chase 

The  phantoms  on  the  water's  face. 

The  world  of  men  was  far  away ; 

There  was  no  sound,  no  speech,  no  cry  ; 
All  desolate  the  dark  Mere  lay 

Under  the  mountains  and  the  sky — 
A  sullen  Mere,  where  sadly  brood 
Dark  shadows  of  the  solitude. 

'  It  is  an  evil  world,'  I  said ; 

1  There  is  no  hope,  my  doom  is  dark.' 
And  in  despair  of  soul  I  fled 

Where  not  another  eye  might  mark 
My  silent  pain,  my  heart's  distress, 
And  all  my  spirit's  weariness.     ^ 

MM 


530 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


And  when  I  came  unto  the  Mere, 

It  lay  and  gleam'd  through  days  of  gloom. 

The  livid  mountains  gather' d  drear 
All  round,  like  stones  upon  a  tomb  ; 

Around  its  margin  rusted  red 

The  dark  earth  crumbled  'neath  my  tread. 

I  said,  '  It  is  a  godless  place — 
Dark,  desolate,  and  curst,  like  me. 

Here,  through  all  seasons,  shall  my  face 
Behold  its  image  silently.' 

And  from  that  hour  I  linger' d  there 

In  protestation  and  despair. 

For  mark,  the  hills  were  stone  and  sand, 
Not  strewn  with  scented  red  or  green — 

All  empty  as  a  dead  man's  hand, 
And  empty  lay  the  Mere  between. 

No  flocks  fed  there,  no  shepherd's  cry 

Awoke  the  echoes  of  the  sky. 

And  through  a  sullen  mist  I  came, 
And  beast-like  crept  unto  my  lair  ; 

And  many  days  I  crouched  in  shame 
Out  of  the  sunshine  and  sweet  air. 

I  heard  the  passing  wind  and  rain, 

Like  weary  waves  within  the  brain. 

But  when  I  rose  and  glimmer'd  forth, 
Ghost-wise  across  my  threshold  cold, 

The  clouds  had  lifted  west  and  north, 
And  all  the  peaks  were  touch'dwith  gold. 

I  smiled  in  scorn  ;  far  down  beneath 

The  waters  lay  as  dark  as  death. 

I  said,  '  Go  by,  O  golden  light ! 

Thou  canst  not  scatter  darkness  here. 
In  two  sad  bosoms  there  is  night, 

In  mine  and  in  the  lonely  Mere  ; 
Light  thou  thy  lamps,  and  go  thy  way.' 
It  went,  and  all  the  heavens  grew  grey. 

And  when  the  lamps  of  heaven  were  lit, 
I  did  not  raise  mine  eyes  to  see, 

But  watch'd  the  ghostly  glimmers  flit 
On  the  black  waters  silently. 

I  hid  my  face  from  heaven,  and  kept 

Dark  vigil  when  the  bright  sun  slept. 

And  ever  when  the  daylight  grew 
I  saw  with  joy  the  hills  were  high  ; 

From  dawn  to  dark,  the  live  day  through, 
Not  lighting  as  the  sun  went  by  ; 

Only  at  noon  one  finger-ray 

Touch'd  us,  and  then  was  drawn  away. 


I  cried,  '  God  cannot  find  me  now  ; 

Done  now  am  I  with  praise  or  pain.' 
Beside  the  Mere,  with  darken' d  brow, 

I  walk'd  as  desolate  as  Cain. 
I  cried,  '  Not  even  God  could  rear 
One  seed  of  love  or  blessing  here  ! ' 

'Twas  Spring  that  day  ;  the  air  was  chill ; 

Above  the  heights  white  clouds  were  roll'd, 
The  Mere  below  was  blue  as  Steel, 

And  all  the  air  was  chill  and  cold, 
When  suddenly  from  air  and  sky 
I  heard  a  solitary  cry. 

Ah  me !  it  was  the  same  sweet  sound 

That  I  had  heard  afar  away  ; 
Sad  echoes  waken'd  all  around 

Out  of  the  rocks  and  caverns  grey, 
And  looking  upward,  weary-eyed, 
I  saw  the  gentle  bird  that  cried. 

Upon  a  rock  sat  that  sweet  bird, 

As  he  had  sat  on  pale  or  tree, 
And  while  the  hills  and  waters  heard, 

He  named  his  name  to  them  and  me. 
I  thought,  '  God  sends  the  Spring  again, 
But  here  at  least  it  comes  in  vain  ! ' 

From  rock  to  rock  I  saw  him  fly, 
Silent  in  flight,  but  loud  at  rest ; 

And  ever  at  his  summer  cry 
The  mountains  gladden'd  and  seem'd 
bless'd, 

And  in  the  hollows  of  them  all 

Faint  flames  of  grass  began  to  crawl ! 

Some  secret  hand  I  could  not  see 
Was  busy  where  I  dwelt  alone  ; 

It  touched  with  tender  tracery, 

Faint  as  a  breath,  the  cliffs  of  stone  ; 

Out  of  the  earth  it  drew  soft  moss, 

And  lichens  shapen  like  the  Cross. 

And  lo  1  at  every  step  I  took 

Some  faint  life  lived,    some   sweetness 

stirred, 
While  loosen'd  torrents  leapt  and  shook 

Their  shining  hair  to  hear  the  bird, 
And  white  clouds  ran  across  the  blue, 
And  sweet  sights  rose,  and  sweet  sounds 
grew. 

I  hated  every  sight  and  sound  ; 

I  hated  most  that  happy  cry. 
I  saw  the  mountains  glory-crown' d, 

And  the  bright  heavens  drifting  by ; 


THE  SECRET  OF  THE  MERE— MNEMOSYNE. 


531 


I  felt  the  earth  beneath  my  tread, 

Now  kindling  quick,  that  late  was  dead  ! 

Daily  I  stole  unto  the  Mere, 
And  black  as  ever  was  its  sleep. 

Close  to  its  margin  all  was  drear  ; 
I  heard  the  weary  waters  creep. 

I  laugh' d  aloud,  '  Though  all  grow  light, 

We  twain  keep  dark,  in  God's  despite  ! 

'  We  will  not  smile  nor  utter  praise  ; 

He  made  us  dark,  and  dark  we  brood. 
Sun-hating,  desolate  of  days, 

We  dwell  apart  in  solitude. 
Let  Him  light  lamps  for  all  the  land ; 
We  darken  and  elude  His  hand." 

Scarce  had  I  spoken  in  such  wise, 
When  as  before  I  heard  the  bird, 

And  lo !  the  Mere  beneath  mine  eyes 
Was  deeply,  mystically  stirred  : 

A  sunbeam  broke  its  gloom  apart, 

And  Heaven  trembled  in  its  heart ; 

There,  clustering  in  that  under-gloom, 
Like  rising  stars  that  open  dim, 

Innumerable,  leaf  and  bloom, 
I  saw  the  water-lilies  swim, 

Still  'neath  the  surface  dark  to  sight, 

But  creeping  upward  to  the  light. 

As  countless  as  the  lights  above, 
Stirring  and  glimmering  below, 

They  gather' d  ;  and  I  watched  them  move, 
Till  on  the  surface,  white  as  snow, 

One  came,  grew  glad,  and  open'd  up, 

A  pinch  of  gold  in  its  white  cup ! 

Then  suddenly  within  my  breast 
Some  life  of  rapture  open'd  too, 

And  I  forgot  my  bitter  quest, 
Watching  that  glory  as  it  grew  ; 

For,  leaf  by  leaf  and  flower  by  flower, 

The  lilies  opened  from  that  hour. 

And  soon  the  gloomy  Mere  was  sown 
With  oiled  leaves  and  stars  of  white  ; 

The  trumpet  of  the  wind  was  blown 
Far  overhead,  from  height  to  height, 

And  lo  !  the  Mere,  from  day  to  day, 

Grew  starry  as  the  Milky  Way. 

I  could  not  bear  to  dwell  apart 
With  so  divine  and  bright  a  thing  ; 

I  felt  the  dark  depths  of  my  heart 
Were  stirring,  trembling,  wakening', 


I  watched  the  Mere,  and  saw  it  shine, 
E'en  as  the  eye  of  God  on  mine. 

As  one  that  riseth  in  his  tomb, 
I  rose  and  wept  in  soul's  distress ; 

I  had  not  fear'd  His  wrath  and  gloom  ; 
But  now  I  fear'd  His  loveliness. 

I  craved  for  peace  from  God,  and  then 

Crept  back  and  made  my  peace  with  men  ! 


MNEMOSYNE;    OR,    THE 
RETROSPECT. 

STILL  were  the  azure  fields,  thick  strewn 
With  stars,  and  trod  by  luminous  feet ; 

In  the  low  west  the  wan  white  Moon 
Walked  in  her  winding-sheet — 

Holding  her  taper  up,  to  see 

Thy  cold  fair  face,  Mnemosyne. 

And  on  that  face  her  lustre  fell, 
Deepening  the  marble  pallor  there, 

While  by  the  stream,  and  down  the  dell, 
Thy  slow  still  feet  did  fare  ; 

Thy  maiden  thoughts  were  far  from  me, 

Thy  lips  were  dumb,  Mnemosyne. 

I  knew  thee  by  a  simpler  name, 
Meet  for  a  maid  of  English  birth, 

And  though  thy  beauty  put  to  shame 
All  beauty  born  of  earth, 

Not  till  that  night  could  my  soul  see 

Thy  soul's  dark  depths,  Mnemosyne ! 

At  last  thy  voice  thrilled  soft  and  low— 
'  Oh,  blessed  be  the  silent  night ! 

It  brings  strange  life  of  long  ago 
Back  to  the  soul's  sad  sight — 

It  trances  sense,  and  thought  is  free 

To  tremble  through  eternity. 

'  Oh,  thinkest  thou  this  life  we  live, 
In  this  strange  haunted  planet  nurst, 

So  mystical,  so  fugitive, 
Could  be  the  last  ?  or  first  ? 

Nay,  I  remember  /' — Pale  stood  she, 

Fronting  the  west,  Mnemosyne. 

The  moonlight  on  her  cheek  of  snow, 
The  star-dew  on  her  raven  hair, 

Her  eyes  in  one  divine  dark  glow 
On  heaven,  she  waited  there— 

'  Nay,  I  remember!'  murmured  she, 

The  earthly  maid,  Mnemosyne. 

MM2 


532 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


And  as  she  spake,  it  seemed  I  saw 
Before  me,  in  the  mystic  light, 

That  old  Greek  woman's-shape  of  awe, 
Large,  lustrous-eyed,  and  white — 

The  twilight  goddess,  fair  to  see, 

With  heavenly  eyes — Mnemosyne ! 

The  haunter  of  green  moonlit  tombs, 
The  reader  of  old  midnight  lore, 

The  glorious  walker  through  God's  glooms, 
Back-looking  evermore. 

I  shook,  and  almost  bent  the  knee, 
Naming  the  name,  '  Mnemosyne  1 '  .  .  . 

'  I  can  remember  /—all  the  day 
Memory  is  dark,  the  past  is  dead, 

But  when  the  sunshine  fades  away, 
And  in  the  void  o'erhead 

Heaven's  eyes  flash  open,  I  can  see 

That  lost  life  1 '  said  Mnemosyne. 

'  Before  this  mortal  sphere  I  trod, 
I  breathed  some  strange  and  heavenly  air ; 

Ay,  wandered  'mid  the  glooms  of  God, 
A  living  soul,  up  there  ! 

The  old  lost  life  comes  back  to  me 

With  starry  gleams  of  memory ! 

I 1  can  remember  ! ' — In  a  trance, 

O  love,  thou  didst  upgazing  stand, 
Nor  turned  from  heaven  thy  lustrous  glance, 

While  soft  I  kissed  thy  hand, 
Whispering  that  mystic  name  to  thee, 
1  Mnemosyne i  Mnemosyne!' 

And  all  the  luminous  eyes  above 
Concentred  one  still  gaze  on  thine, 

When  warm  wild  words  of  earthly  love 
Poured  in  thine  ears  divine, 

Till,  with  thy  soft  lips  kissing  me, 

Thy  soul  saw  mine,  Mnemosyne  1 

A  sense  of  that  forgotten  life 

Blew  on  our  cheeks  like  living  breath  ; 
Lifted  beyond  the  world's  dark  strife, 

Above  the  gates  of  Death, 
Hand  linked  in  hand,  again  lived  we 
That  starlight  life  of  ecstasy  1 

Go  by,  bright  days  of  golden  blooms  ! 

She  shrinks  and  darkens  in  your  gleam  ; 
Come,  starry  nights  and  mystic  glooms, 

And  deepen  that  sweet  dream  1 
Let  her  remember  ;  let  her  be 
Priestess  of  peace— Mnemosyne  1 


O  child  of  heaven,  the  life  we  live, 

In  this  strange  haunted  planet  nurst, 
So  mystical,  so  fugitive, 

Is  not  the  last,  or  first ; 
That  lost  life  was,  new  life  shall  be- 
So  keep  thy  name,—'  Mnemosyne  ! ' 


VANITY  FAIR. 


HERE'S  a  babble 

In  Vanity  Fair ! 
Here's  a  rabble 

Of  folk  on  the  stare  1 
Here's  a  crying, 
Selling  and  buying, 
Groaning  and  grumbling, 
Pushing  and  stumbling  ! 
Tootle-te-toot ! 

Rum-ti-tum-tum ! 
They  blow  the  flute, 

And  they  beat  the  drum. 
And  yonder  in  rows 
Are  the  painted  shows, 
Where  zany  and  clown 

With  '  Walk  in,  walk  in  ! ' 
Stalk  up  and  down, 

While  the  people  grin. 
Hold  me  tighter,  my  pretty  one, 
We'll  elbow  our  way  and  see  the  fun. 
In    we    go,    where    they    scramble    and 

scream — 
What  a  rabble  !  it's  like  a  dream  I 

Trip  it  merrily, 

Pretty  one, 
On  we  stray  cheerily 

Full  of  the  fun  : 
Punch  and  Judy ; 

Fiddlestring  ; 
Acrobats  moody 

Making  a  ring ; 
Clowns  cutting  capers 

At  every  show  ; 
Bucolic  gapers 

Grinning  below ; 
Quiet  conjurers  quick  and  sly 
Making  the  public  halfpence  fly ; 
Quacks  with  boluses,  nostrums,  and  pills, 
Vending  cures  for  the  flesh  and  its  ills  ; 
Every  one  bawling — (O  the  din  !) 
Every  voice  calling — '  Walk  in,  walk  in.' 


VANITY  FAIR. 


533 


'Stop    the    thief!'— how    they    carry    the 

shout ! 

How  the  crowd  eddies  in  and  out ! 
Lean  and  thin  with  quivering  lip 
The  rascal  writhes  in  his  captor's  grip : 
He  looks  all  round  with  a  hungry  stare  ; 
The  mob  groans  round  him  and  longs  to 

tear — 

Off  to  the  gaol  the  scarecrow  bear  1 
We're  virtuous  people  in  Vanity  Fair  1 

All  together, 

Christian  and  Jew, 
Birds  of  fine  feather, 

And  ragged  too, 
Dukes  and  earls, 
And  ballet  girls, 
Philosophers, 
And  patterers ; 
The  poor  from  the  city, 

The  wild  sea-rover, 
The  beggar  witty 
Half-seas  over, 
The  gipsy  pretty 

Red  from  a  romp  in  the  clover. 
Right  foot,  left  foot,  we  trip  it  and  toe  it, 
You  the  pretty  girl,  I  your  poet, 
Rubbing  sleeves  with  great  and  small, 
Jostling  along  through  the  heart  of  them 

all. 
Our    hearts    are    leaping,    our  heads  are 

dizzy, 

The  trade's  so  merry,  the  mirth  so  busy, 
We  squeeze  along  and  we  gasp  for  air, 
In  the  hurry  and  flurry  of  Vanity  Fair. 

II. 

Clari,  my  sweetest, 
Trimmest  and  neatest, 

Why  this  alarm? 
Why  are  you  sighing, 
Fluttering  and  crying, 

And  gripping  my  arm? 
'  Come  away  !  come  away  ! 

'Tis  so  sad  !  'Tis  so  loud  ! 
My  soul  swoons  away, 

To  look  at  the  crowd  ! 

0  hark  how  they  cry— 

1  am  sick,  let  us  fly  ! ' 

O    Clari,   sweet  blending  of  fire  and  of 

air, 
Come  along,  come  along,  out  of  Vanity 

Fair. 


Out  yonder  are  fields  and  the  sky  and  the 

trees — 
And  the  only  sounds  there  are  the  birds  and 

the  breeze, 
And  the  water  that  throbs  in  its  green 

woodland  nest, 
Like  the  heart  that  is  beating  so  loud  in 

your  breast. 

.  .  .  Breathless,  flushing, 
Faint  with  the  crushing, 

Here  we  are — 
Night  is  coming, 
Droning  and  humming 

Sounds  Vanity  Fair  afar  ; 
And  its  light,  as  the  night 
Cometh  down,  is  cast  bright 
On  the  sky  far  away  .  .  . 

How  strange  feels  this  stillness  ! 
Grey  and  more  grey 

Comes  the  night  with  its  dullness. 
Clari,  where  are  we  ?    Outside  the  Fair, 
With  the  great  black  earth  and  the  sky  and 

the  air, 
All  alone— Hold  me  tighter !    The  noise  of 

the  rout 
Was  dreadful  within,    but  more  dreadful 

without 
Seems  the  silence.     O  God  !  see  the  pale 

moon  arise, 
And  the  hills  black  as  ink  in  the  shade,  and 

the  eyes 

Of  the  stars  fix'd  on  ours  from  the  terrible 
skies. 

What  is  this  looming 

Against  the  light, 
Silent  and  glooming 

In  the  chilly  night  ? 
And  what  are  these  clinging, 

Three  in  a  row, 
Dismally,  swinging 

When  the  wind  doth  blow  ? 
Three  black  figures  against  the  light, 
Their    faces  white   and  their  legs  strapt 

tight, 

Having  a  swing  in  the  wind  this  night ! 
O  hold  me  faster,  who  is  she 
That  stands  at  the  foot  of  the  cross-shaped 

tree? 

Cowl'd,  barefooted,  with  hooded  face, 
What  doth  she  in  the  ghostly  place? 
Silent  she  stands,  a  s.?d  beholder  ! 
Stop,  let  me  touch  her  on  the  shoulder. 


534 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  AND  BALLADS. 


The  moon  shines  cold 

On  the  silent  place — 
O  God,  I  behold 

The  dear  dead  face  ! 
She  turns  unto  me 

Calm  and  white, 
Her  eyes  thrill  through  me 

With  piteous  light. 
How  cold  yet  how  sweet 

In  the  night-wind  she  stands  1 


See,  the  poor  wounded  feet ! 

See,  the  poor  pleading  hands  ! 
Is  it  she  ?    Kneel  and  pray  !  O  my  child, 

have  no  care, 
She  is  near — Hath  she  fled?  Did  we  dream? 

Was  she  there  ? 

Ah,  cold  is  the  night,  and  the  earth  lieth  bare, 
And,  distant  and  deep,  a  dull  sound  fills  the 

air — 
The  wash  of  the  waters  of  Vanity  Fair. 


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LONDON 


PR 

4260 

A2 

1901 

v.l 


Buchanan,   Robert  Williams 

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